


Sharpen The Sickle

by liquidengineers



Category: Star Trek: The Next Generation
Genre: Alien Culture, Alien Planet, Aliens, Best Friends, Blood and Violence, Dark, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Gen, Georgian Period, Gore, M/M, Original Character(s), Rare Pairings, Revolution, Riker has big dad vibes, Slow Burn, War, although i 'spose they're not redshirts because ng fucked with the shirt colours (no shade tho), emotional bond, original lore, redshirt death, when i say slow burn i mean sloooow burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-13
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:08:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 29,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23128324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liquidengineers/pseuds/liquidengineers
Summary: His gaze softened, and he lowered his voice far enough so that Sawyer, a few steps behind them, couldn’t hear. “I am glad I get to experience this with you.”His voice was soft and genuine; Geordi had a sudden urge to crush him in an embrace. He settled with touching Data’s arm and returning the sentiment. The alluring taste of alien spices that tinged the air increased exponentially as a crashing realisation swept Geordi’s brain forth in a deluge of indiscernible feelings; he wanted to remain by Data’s side for the rest of eternity, even if that meant floating in the darkness of uncertainty while the universe fizzled out and died around them.•A diplomatic mission to Ortrarvis - a planet where tensions are at breaking point between the upper and lower classes - goes awry when the away team finds themselves in the middle of a bloody revolution. With the Enterprise on strict orders to standby and not intervene, the now-separated team must fight for their survival on the planet's surface as they each get caught up in their own adventure.(Mature rating due to graphic violence and swearing).
Relationships: Data/Geordi La Forge, Jean-Luc Picard & Deanna Troi, Jean-Luc Picard/William Riker, William Riker & Deanna Troi, Worf & Geordi La Forge
Comments: 76
Kudos: 121





	1. Part One; The Whims of the Bourgeoisie - But, Like, In Space

**Author's Note:**

> This was meant to be a simple, maybe 2000 word gore fic... but one thing led to another and the next thing I know, I've created an entire species with their own cultural behaviours, alien biology, and socio-political issues arising from inequality, due to the horrific social and economical stratification. There is still gore tho (but it's easy to skip over if you're not into that sort of stuff).
> 
> I'm hoping it's worth reading, if only for the bits where Riker has massive dad vibes :)

**PART ONE**

_The Whims of the Bourgeoisie - But, Like, In Space_

Picard addressed the small gathering in the observation lounge. “You all know that Starfleet is eager to establish an outpost in the sector of the galaxy. As you all may have heard, we have received a new assignment pertaining to this goal, regarding a planet nearby. Data?”

The android began without hesitation. “Otrarvis; a planet inhabited by the humanoid species Avul’a, whose social structure resembles that of many pre-first contact Earth cultures, particularly that of late eighteenth century Georgian society. They have not had much prior communication with Starfleet and there are few reports of their development as a species following initial documentation.”

Picard nodded and surveyed the room with a hard eye. “Emperor Shan of Otrarvis has recently reached out to Starfleet to arrange an agreement concerning the establishment of a new outpost on their planet. With many of the other planets in this sector either hostile or uninterested in diplomatic ventures, it goes without saying that Starfleet is… very determined to have this outpost built. We have very stringent instructions to avoid upsetting the Avul’a in any way, which also means strictly no intervention from the ship should anything go wrong — unless any rescue or backup plans are confirmed with Starfleet and given the green light.’

He tucked his hands behind his back, sweeping a stern eye across the room. “Our mission is not only diplomatic, but also a way to gather information on both the positive and negatives of the planet, so all of you members of the away team will be assigned scouting jobs during the mission. You must log all information into a shared database, which will then be sent to Starfleet. I’m expecting daily reports that do not compromise on detail. Data will be making sure that everyone’s reports are in on time. Understand?”

There was a scattering of nods. The captain smiled thinly at them. “The emperor has requested my presence on the planet throughout the entirety of the mission, which naturally means my first officer is cranky and insists on extra security, bringing our away team to a total of ten.”

Riker shot a stern look at the three security officers standing by the door. “Mattar, Harley, Sawyer — I expect you to stay with the captain at all times."

Picard resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “We will be staying as guests in the emperor’s palace for a little under two weeks. They have requested we dress in their traditional clothing, which will be provided to us upon arrival on the planet. During this time, communication with the ship must only be conducted through Riker or I, unless it is an emergency, as per Starfleet orders. Any questions?”

A young engineering ensign (that Geordi had insisted was perfect for the assignment on account of her extensive love for anthropology) tentatively raised her voice. “Excuse me if this is an inappropriate question, sir, but how stable is their social structure? It’s only, Commander Data mentioned their society is similar to Earth’s Georgian ones a- and such class divide can lead to pretty brutal revolutions. Like, um, the French revolution.” 

“That’s an entirely appropriate question, Ensign. Emperor Shan hasn’t spoken of any tensions, but we’ll make sure to keep an eye out. Anyone else?” Upon being greeted with silence, Picard went on. “We shall reach Otrarvis in a day’s time. I trust you will all be ready.”

Through the reflections on the window Picard watched his away team depart the observation lounge, until only Riker remained. He came to stand by Picard on soft feet, watching the stars without a word. Eventually Riker turned to him, clearly struggling to hide the worry in his eyes. 

“Captain… do you think Ensign Mann may be right about the whole ‘collapse of society’ thing?”

Picard sighed. “I take it Starfleet’s too desperate for this outpost to care that much.” He looked up at Riker, his eyes grim. “Let’s just hope it goes smoothly.”

❦

The Avul’a themselves looked remarkably like Data, save for their cat-like facial features and long, wiry tails — they possessed the same pallid complexion and yellow eyes as the android. The women were taller than even Riker, yet the men were short yet stocky, chest-high things, forcing Picard’s neck to constantly be craning one way or another. Upon beaming down, the away team found themselves quickly surrounded by a frantic rush of Avul’ian servants in a whirlwind of activity. The Avul’a carried themselves with quick, darting movements, as if they were mice scurrying across a kitchen floor. It gave them a somewhat nervous quality; an air of twitchy anxiety.

“Captain Picard,” a smartly-dressed Avul’ addressed, “I am Shi’en, advisor to Emperor Shan. He has requested to meet you at a banquet held in your honour tonight. All diplomatic dealings shall be done through me.” He bowed low to the ground, arms stretched either side of him and fingers splayed; Picard realised they only had four fingers on each hand. Data leaned over to whisper at him.

“A greeting of the highest respect, Captain. You are not expected to return it, but should greet the emperor like so.”

Picard nodded, and bowed his head slightly as Shi’en straightened up. The squat creature gestured forward. “If you will accompany me to your rooms, we shall have our tailors fit you with our traditional clothing. I expect you will want to begin discussing the agreement right away, but Emperor Shan has insisted on providing you with clothing as soon as possible. We Avul’a are very particular about dressing well.” He offered a thin smile.

“Thank you kindly, Shi’en. This is my first officer, Commander William Riker, as well as Commander Data and ship’s councillor Deanna Troi. They will be present with me whenever discussing the agreement,” Picard introduced as they were led down ornate corridors plated with something that looked like gold.

One of the women fingered Worf’s uniform, much to his displeasure. “This one is different from the others,” she murmured curiously. “Why is he dressed in the same clothing?”

Geordi smiled broadly at her, clapping the Klingon on the shoulder. “Worf here is a Klingon; he’s not from the same planet as us humans.”

The girls ooh-ed and ahh-ed. Worf grunted, looking vaguely embarrassed at the attention.

Picard turned back to Shi’en. “My officers would also like to gather information on your culture and planet during the stay, if that isn’t too intrusive. We need to ensure Otrarvis is a good place for an outpost.”

Shi’en frowned and gestured at one of the women flanking the group, barking something at her in a rough, angular language. She scurried off, and his thin smile returned. “The city is free to explore, Captain, although I’d suggest sticking to the wealthier parts. We’ve had some… _problems_ with lesser citizens.”

Picard raised an eyebrow, trying to ignore the way he’d referred to them as ‘lesser’. “Problems?”

“Oh, nothing spectacular. There’s been a few instances of the newly unemployed breaking into factories, damaging their machines. It’s nothing to worry yourself over.”

Data once again leaned toward Picard. “The luddites on Earth exhibited similar behaviour toward new technology that replaced their jobs.”

Riker drew beside Picard, matching his pace. “Emperor Shan didn’t mention any problems in his communication with Starfleet.”

Shi’en didn’t look at Riker, instead keeping his attention on Picard. He offered a small shrug, answering to Picard as if he was the one who asked the question. “Like I said, it’s not a big problem. If you stick to the wealthier suburbs you’ll be fine.”

He clapped his hands together, drawing to a halt as they rounded a corner. “Here are your rooms. You may distribute yourself as you see fit. I shall have tailors come to you shortly and provide you with clothes. You may explore the palace as you like, however I shall come by these rooms in three hours precisely to lead you to the ballroom, where you will meet the emperor. _Sa’U’Las_ , Captain Picard.” He bowed again, fingers outstretched.

“ _Sa’U’Las_ , Shi’en,” Picard returned as the advisor scurried away. He could see Riker frowning at the retreating back of the Avul’ and made a mental note to ask him about it later. 

“Captain, there are only nine rooms in this corridor,” Data mentioned. “Perhaps the Avul’a made a mistake.”

Geordi clapped the android on the back. “That’s no problem, Data, I’d be happy to bunk with you — what d’ya say? It’ll be like a sleepover!”

Data frowned. “A sleep-over?”

Riker smiled, just as thin as Shi’en had. “I’d like either myself or one of the security officers to be present in or outside of your room at all times, Captain.”

Picard met his eye. Riker held it, gazing at him firmly. It was a battle of stares that they’d had more than once before, Riker’s silent challenge against authority and Picard’s push back. Eventually the captain sighed and dropped his eyes, crossing his arms with a vexed scowl. “I hardly need you babying me, number one, but I can see you won’t be put at ease otherwise. The rest of you can pick your rooms. If you’re going to explore, be back here by the time Shi’en comes to collect us.” With an air of annoyance, he swept into the closest room, Riker close on his heels (trying and failing to hide his complacent smile).

“Geordi, what is a ‘sleep-over’?” Data queried. “I do not think the Avul’ will provide hammocks…” 

❦

Worf’s room was decorated in that same gold-esque plating that covered the corridors. Ornate, seemingly hand-painted patterns of strange flowers and animals chased each other around the walls and ceiling in grand frozen gestures; even creeping onto the floor in some places. At either corner of the far wall of the room sat a nest-like pile of plump cushions and silken cloth, which he presumed were meant to be the beds. The whole room was scattered with what must have been several hundred tiny candles. He couldn’t see any other obvious sources of light, aside from the tiny window set high up in the back wall. Two large mirrors adorned both the right and left walls.

As Shi’en had promised a tailor had come to his room, and a very awkward (and, thankfully, short) clothing session had ensued. He was dressed in the ridiculous traditional garb currently — a loose shirt paired with light, puffy pants that made him feel like a pirate (albeit a well-to-do pirate on account of the many delicate frills and ruffles sewn into the sleeves and hem of the shirt). The catch, though, the part that made him hate the whole damn attire with a passion, was the incredibly heavy, incredibly hot, burnoose-style cape. 

Made from thick black fabric that felt every bit like flinging a heavy woollen fire blanket over his shoulders, the cape was embroidered with delicate gold flourishes that led the eye on a journey down the back to tiny tassels adorning its seams. Worf thought the whole thing was entirely unnecessary; it only weighed him down and made him sweat like a pig. He couldn’t wait to see the others struggling in their own capes.

Stepping out into the corridor he could just make out snippets of Picard and Riker having what sounded like a heated conversation in the room to his right.

“...don’t like the way… as if you’d asked it?” In what few words Worf could pick out, Riker sounded upset. “...no bearing… don’t occupy… of power!”

“Commander Riker!” That was Picard. Their voices dropped back to an indiscernible dynamic. 

“Ah, Worf, I see you’ve also become acquainted with the clothing,” Geordi chuckled from behind him. Worf blinked and turned, met with the sight of the engineer and Data dressed similarly, both adorned in dark capes matching his own. 

Geordi bobbed downward in a mock-curtsy, lifting the cape with his thumb and forefingers. “I must say, I’m having a bit of a hard time dragging this heavy thing around. You and Data seem to be doing fine.” 

“Each cape seems to possess a unique embroidered pattern,” Data mused, “implying each one was designed and made individually rather than mass-produced. If this is indeed common dress, the amount of time spent manufacturing enough unique capes to clothe the population must be significant. That is, unless-”

Geordi covered his mouth with a hand, an amused smile tugging at his lips. “I’m sure there’s a lively fashion district in which thousands of rambunctious tailors spend all day every day embroidering capes, Data. Let’s not bore Worf with speculation; we can ask someone about it later on. Worf, we were about to explore the palace, would you like to come with?”

He removed his hand from Data’s face, who promptly took a breath to talk again. “Given the popu-” 

The hand went back over the mouth.

Worf took stride beside the pair, content to walk in silence and let the two continue their playful bickering. The gilded corridors possessed tall ceilings — presumably to accommodate the Avul’ian women’s great height — giving them an eerily empty vibe, despite the frequent statuettes or strangely shaped vases displayed on graceful pedestals along the walls. The elegant, gold-heavy architecture of the Avul’ian palace was almost the complete opposite of the militaristic buildings of Kronos that he’d spent so few years living within; the juxtaposition between the palace he was immersed in now and the distant memories of his home world made him feel uncomfortably out of place.

He was drawn back into the conversation upon hearing his name. Geordi was staring at him expectantly. “Data thinks we should ask someone about what Shi-en said before, the stuff about citizens getting antsy in the poorer districts. I think we should hold off on nosing around until _after_ we’ve met the emperor. What say you?”

“I agree with Data. We’re here to collect information, after all,” Worf shrugged.

Data raised a finger. “Shi’en gave us permission to explore as we please. I am sure the emperor will not be offended if we ask a few questions.”

Geordi sighed. “Fine. But I’ll do the talking, you’re too direct.” He prodded Data’s chest, and whirled around to chase down a flustered looking maid, all smiles and jokes. Worf caught Data watching Geordi with a curious expression.

“I don’t understand humans. What’s wrong with being direct?” he muttered to the android. 

Data seemed to shake himself out of his thoughts (weren’t androids meant to be alert all the time?) and blinked. “I have come to believe that pleasant banter is relaxing to humans.” He frowned again. “Although I am not quite sure I understand why.”

❦

Picard crossed his arms and sighed. “Alright number one, tell me why you’re sulking.”

Riker blinked up at him. “I’m not sulking.” 

Well, maybe he was sulking just a little bit. Not only was he sour after their interaction with Shi’en, but he felt like either a pirate or a vampire in his new clothes, and there was something mildly embarrassing in having the captain see him in so many ruffles (although Picard too was dressed much the same). Not to mention the fact the tailor had said something about capes and rushed off — Riker found himself half dreading and half excited for what he meant.

Picard raised an eyebrow. “You’ve hardly spoken since Shi’en left. I don’t appreciate sulking, number one, especially not if it’s going to interfere with our mission.” His gaze was firm, challenging him to fight back. Riker smiled and looked away.

“They seem to hold authority in high regard,” he offered. 

Picard looked confused. “Many cultures do. Is that a problem?”

Riker dropped the amiable facade. “I… I don’t like the way they treat the group as if you’re the only person here. Did you see the way Shi’en answered my question without looking at me, as if you’d asked it? It’s like they think you have no bearing if you don’t occupy the highest position of power!”

“Commander Riker!” Picard said, irritated, then dropped his voice to a harsh whisper. “Look, you’re allowed to be uncomfortable that I’m not up there, safe on the ship. It’s reasonable to worry about the safety of your captain, _but_ … it is not reasonable to be jealous of him!”

Riker’s eyes widened, his own indignation flaring. “It wasn’t my intention to sound _jealous_ , sir. I’m just worried that it seems like a suspicious amount of attention, I-” he stopped himself, looking at his feet as his annoyance morphed into shame. “It’s probably just their culture. My apologies, captain. I’m on edge.”

Picard visibly deflated, although his expression remained stony. “Yes, well…” He seemed to struggle for words. He was saved by the tailor sweeping back into the room with a couple of others in tow, with what looked like miles of heavy fabric in their arms. 

A bemused Riker was whirled around and stationed in front of one of the grand mirrors. The tailors buzzed around him, flinging a heavy black cape around his shoulders and arranging it as they saw fit. Eventually they stepped back and smiled at him; he returned the gesture. 

He turned to watch them leave, catching sight of Picard. Unlike Riker’s gold-embellished black cape, Picard was sporting a magnificent, fully golden cloak, the threads glimmering in the light of the many candles burning around the room. Black flourishes jetted down the hem of the cloak — Riker was oddly amused to see what appeared to be Starfleet’s insignia repeated a few times throughout the pattern. 

Picard threw him a small smirk. “It’s a bit over the top, isn’t it?”

Riker couldn’t help but laugh “You match the walls.” He stepped forward to finger the silken hem of the cape, envying the fluidity of the material. His own cape was akin to a thick wooden board in comparison to the silk-like thinness of Picard’s cape. Riker raised an amused eyebrow. “Very handsome, sir. _Now_ I’m jealous.”

There was a knock at the door, and Deanna slipped into the room, dressed in an elaborate flowing gown. She too had fallen prey to a sea of ruffles and countless tassels, looking every bit like she’d fallen into a fashion designer’s bin of offcuts (and yet, she somehow still had a radiant beauty, Riker mused, like she always did). The bodice was made of the same material as his own shirt, the skirt thick and woollen like his cape. She smiled when she saw them.

Riker smiled back. “I’m sorry to see you’re also stuck with this… hefty material,” he joked. 

“It suits you, Will. Maybe you should carry around your body weight in fabric more often,” Deanna joked back. “Handsome cape, captain. I like the gold.” 

“That’s what I said,” laughed Riker.

❦

Emperor Shan looked (and sounded) every bit like a slimeball. He was just that tiny bit shorter than the other males, just that tiny bit fatter, his fur just that tiny bit greasier and his smile just a tiny bit more scheming. He met the away team with a wickedly gleeful expression, his grin only widening as Shi’en motioned for them all to bow and splay their hands in the Avul’ian greeting of respect. Geordi immediately didn’t like him, and could tell his fellow crewmates didn’t either. They took their seats amongst the countless noblemen and women at the long banquet table. Geordi found himself between two women who continued their conversation in the native tongue above his head, glancing down at him and giggling every so often. 

“Esteemed guests!” the emperor called, shifting to stand on his chair, arms outstretched to the ceiling. “As you may have noticed, we have some unusual additions to the table today.”

There was a scattering of giggles and whispers.

“This is Captain Picard of Starfleet, here on diplomatic business.” He gestured to Picard, who had the unfortunate pleasure of being seated beside him at the head of the table. “My dear Picard, you may indulge yourselves in the best of what Otrarvis has to offer throughout your stay.”

“Including the women!” someone called from the far end of the table.

Shan laughed loudly. “Including your pick of only the finest women and men in the city.” He winked and clapped an uncomfortable-looking Picard on the shoulder. “Here’s to Otrarvis and Starfleet! Eat!”

The company cheered loudly as servants piled food upon the plates. On either side of Geordi, the Avul’ian women dug in rather messily, scooping great swathes of food into their mouths, using their four-fingered hands like spades. 

He surveyed his plate. What looked like the succulent ribs of some large animal swam in a dark brown sauce, a seed-like food akin to rice piled high around them. Various other vessels around the table held bright-coloured vegetables, meats and sauces. With no cutlery in sight, Geordi imitated the women and scooped food less-than-gracefully into his mouth. Although messy, it tasted phenomenal; a welcome change from replicator meals.

“So, _A’chtuk’shAl_ ,” the woman to his right purred, sauce dripping down her chin. Her cat-like eyes gazed at him seductively. “What’re you called?”

“Geordi.”

She laughed smoothly, leaning closer. “What a cute name, _A’chtuk’shAl_.”

The woman on his left sucked the meat of a rib and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “We girls are so glad you’ve come, _A’chtuk’shAl_ , truly we are. The men here are so… _bite-sized_ , they have no substance.”

Right giggled. “Oh, she’s joking, really she is.”

Left shot her a pointed glance. “Quite, quite, unless you don’t want me to be joking, _A’chtuk’shAl_.”

Geordi offered them a smile. “This is amazing food,” he tried. The women tittered.

“Of course it is, of course it is. None so better as palace food. The stuff on the streets is rubbish, I’m afraid,” Left sighed. 

Geordi latched onto this new line of conversation, eager to steer away from talk of bite-sized men and his apparently cute name. “Is it? I’ll make sure to steer clear of it, then.”

Right’s light-hearted disposition seemed to be sucked right into her giant frame as she scowled at her plate. “The food of the lesser citizens is filled with dirt and grime. You’re right to avoid it.”

There was a moment of tense silence. Geordi swallowed his mouthful and hesitantly glanced up at the two. “Pardon me for asking, but what does Ah’k… Ah’k-took-shahl mean?” He struggled with the angular word. Left snorted at his pronunciation.

The vigour returned to Right’s eyes. “That’s for us to know, _A’chtuk’shAl_ ,” she purred, eyelashes dipping in a lewd wink. Geordi suppressed a shiver.

At the other end of the table, Riker found himself subject to a volley of questions by a very enthusiastic young Avul'ian man.

“You’re very tall. Are all human males tall?”

“Uh… not all of them, no-”

“Do any humans have fur?”

“Well, some have hair over their bod-”

“Oh, oh, do you have a mate yet? Have you produced your legacy?”

“My legacy?”

“To carry forth your blood!”

“Oh, children! N-”

“Have you been to the lesser suburbs yet?”

There was that word again – lesser. The class divide evidently had deeper effects than just lifestyle-wise. Riker wondered if he could ask about it without being drowned in queries.

“Sho’en?” he asked during a pause in the Avul’s excited chatter. The man looked at him expectantly, the fur around his mouth practically dripping with sauce. Riker was surprised he’d been able to eat anything during his unrelenting babble. “Shi’en mentioned something about the… _lesser_ class causing problems.”

The Avul’ paled, avoiding Riker’s eye. “Well, erm, it’s nothing that bad, you see, it’s really only just a few instances of, uh, of not much really, come to think of it. Really it’s not a problem, none of us have found it problematic, oh no, it’s only really the A’ch’tuK’tal-”

“Sho’en…” Riker cut in gently. “It’s alright, I was just wondering. I’m… glad to hear that it’s not bad.”

Sho’en’s expression brightened, a relieved smile growing on his feline-like features. He shovelled some more food into his mouth, glancing around nervously at the dinner guests around them. Riker followed his lead, turning his attention into working out how to eat the decidedly messy food without spreading sauce over his new clothes.


	2. Part Two; Earthly Concerns

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've decided that 4,000 words is a little too many words for each part, so I've halved it from here on out. Sorry for the shorter chapters, but hopefully this'll mean that I post them quicker! That being said, I've recently started online school again for term 2 and already have a bunch of assignments (+ an original writing project I'm working on outside of school), so I'm not sure how long it'll be before the next update...

**PART TWO**

_Earthly Concerns_

“Picard,” Emperor Shan smiled, his own eye-catching golden cape dragging behind him as they made their way through the palace. “I trust you enjoyed your dinner?”

“It was marvelous, thank you,” Picard smiled back. It wasn’t a lie; the food had been wonderful. No, the real problem lay in the company – the emperor had felt it necessary to point out the physical attributes of every good-looking being at the table; including the members of the away team. He hadn’t the heart to tell Shan that ‘gorgeous bosom’ was not considered a term of endearment on the Enterprise.

The emperor’s smile only widened. “I have the finest food in the kingdom. The perks of being a ruler, Picard, I’m sure you know.”

They stopped suddenly in front of a guarded room, Riker, Data and Troi (whom Shi’en had insisted on walking behind Picard and the emperor) almost running headfirst into their backs. Without looking at them, Shan gestured at the guards to move aside with a flick of his wrist. Picard resisted the urge to wrinkle his nose as they passed by the two strong-smelling Avul’a, making a mental note of the disrepair that their tattered clothes were in.

“Please excuse the slaves,” Shan sighed as Shi’en ushered them to sit around the short wooden table in the centre of the room. “Now, Captain, let us discuss this agreement.”

“I have a few questions, actually,” Picard started. Shan nodded at him to continue. “Needless to say, Starfleet is interested in the safety of Ortrarvis. We don’t wish to put an outpost in a place in which anybody may be endangered.”

“Like I told Starfleet when they first reached out,” Shan cut in, smiling broadly, “Ortrarvis is a peaceful planet. Your outpost would not be in danger.”

Picard shot a look at Riker. “I have heard from a few individuals around the palace that you’ve been having some problems with certain citizens.” He avoided use of the word ‘lesser’, although he expected Shan wouldn’t hesitate to refer to them in such a demeaning way.

Shan looked mildly annoyed. “Who’s been telling you these things, Picard? There’s no problems that any other society doesn’t have. The odd scuffle in the lesser streets, every now and then. Nothing that would endanger a whole outpost.”

Of course, there was the ever-popular ‘lesser’ again.

“Emperor Shan,” Riker started. The emperor’s eyes flicked over to him for a second at most, then levelled back on Picard. “I’ve heard the word _Ak—aktooktahl_?”

“ _A’ch’tuK’tal_ ,” Data offered, his pronunciation perfect, of course.

“Yes. I’ve heard it repeated a few times, in connection with these problems. What does it mean?”

Shan didn’t look at Riker at all. He kept his eyes trained on Picard, his gaze practically going through him. He wouldn’t be surprised if Shan could read his thoughts.

“It means ‘The Liberated’,” he said eventually, “it’s nothing to be concerned about. Just a silly little group who thinks they have a problem with us upper citizens. They’re few in numbers, and we have them under control.”

Shi’en, who had been looking increasingly worried throughout the conversation, now put his hand out to quieten the emperor, and smiled nervously at Picard. “The, ah, reason we didn’t mention when talking to Starfleet was purely because we didn’t think it was of a caliber that would interest you.”

“Of course,” Picard said, watching the emperor closely. Shan gave no indication that he was feeling the same worry present on Shi’en’s face. “All the same, we’d like to gather some more information on this group over our visit.”

“Naturally.” Shan smiled widely; a shiver ran down Picard’s spine and he suppressed the urge to look away. “Shi’en can provide you with all the information you need on the _A’ch’tuK’tal_. Now, if we’re done talking about that, can we move onto the agreement?”

Without waiting for a response, Shan charged on. “Starfleet was unable to give me an approximation for how many jobs this outpost may provide to my people.”

“At first, the outpost will be run by trained officers; although Starfleet will provide as many training opportunities to your citizens as they can. Mr Data may be able to elaborate.”

Shan wrinkled his nose. “And what status is Data?”

Picard was taken aback by his almost disgusted tone. He shot a look at Data, who didn’t seem to have picked up on the underlying revulsion in the emperor’s voice. Sitting beside the android, Riker was looking positively ill. Troi’s expression was unreadable.

“Lieutenant Commander, your imperial majesty,” Data replied.

Shan’s eyes remained on Picard. “Are you able to provide this information yourself, Picard?”

Picard suspended his shock at the blatant disregard of his crew, and tried to remain professional. “Not to the same level of detail as Data, I’m afraid. However, I can provide a rough estimate of the job opportunities…”

❦

Geordi was already in their room when Data returned from their meeting with the emperor. He had already shed his cape – it lay crumpled in the corner – and was standing on his tip-toes against the back wall, trying to peak out of the room’s solitary, high-set window. He started as Data came in, relaxing when he realised who it was.

“Ah, Data, you’re back. I was just trying to see out of the window. I’ve heard wonderful things about the night sky here from some of the palace workers.” He looked back to the window, chuckling. “Obviously, they’re not built for someone of my stature. Tell me, how did the meeting go?”

Data frowned. “The Captain and Commander Riker appeared to be exceedingly tense throughout our interactions with Emperor Shan. He did not seem to desire communication with anyone other than Captain Picard.”

Geordi sighed and leant against the wall, arms crossed. “I get the idea that Emperor Shan has some interesting ideas about status, Data.”

Although Data had little doubt that Geordi was right, he knew the claim was only speculation. Riker, too, had complained about that very conjecture the entire walk back, much to the displeasure of the captain.

“Ah, it’s no use getting bogged down in the negative,” Geordi said with a smile. “What d’ya say we go find a balcony to get a glimpse of this famous night sky, huh?”

“That sounds most satisfactory.”

The engineer was at the door in an instant, glancing back at Data with his signature grin. It was a mystery to the android, how Geordi seemed to be able to grin through anything and everything. Even in situations that obviously had enormous strain on the other crew members, Geordi’s grin was always decorating his face. Data supposed that it might help to ease the tension of those around him. He enjoyed Geordi’s grin. He thought it looked good on him.

There was a balcony at the end of the hall – or, at least, the closest thing to a balcony that they could find. The end of the hallway was completely open to the outside air, a knee-high wall the only thing separating golden floors from thin air. While the ‘structure’ did not jut out of the side of the palace, like conventional Earth-style balconies, the sudden opening had much the same effect; although Data made a point to remain conscious of where the short wall was, so they could avoid any potential accidents. The palace was set high up into the stone of a great mountain, and it was a long fall to the city down below.

Geordi was silent. He gazed up at the sky through his VISOR, his smile faltering every now and then. Data watched him closely. Eventually Geordi sighed heavily and turned away, tucking his hands into his armpits.

“Geordi, are you alright?” Data asked. His friend shot him a smile, but it was weak in comparison to his usual grin.

“Yeah, I’m fine, Data.” He was shivering, slightly.

“Are you cold?”

“A bit,” Geordi shrugged. Data stuck out his hands. Geordi frowned at them, looking up at him with a questioning gaze.

“I can moderate my body temperature manually,” Data explained. He placed a warm hand over one of Geordi’s; an almost imperceptible shiver went down the man’s back. He smiled again, and tentatively let Data’s hands cover his own.

“Hell of a pocket warmer,” he chuckled. Data found himself smiling slightly too, although he didn’t understand the joke, if there was one.

They stood there, silently, for a good few moments. Geordi seemed to gravitate toward him.

“The sky looks the same as every other sky through this thing,” he said eventually, gesturing to his VISOR. “I guess I just kidded myself into thinking it might be different this time.”

Data didn’t know how to respond. Geordi shot him one last smile. “It’s fine, Data,” he said, like he could see the confusion at what to say. “I don’t need you to say anything. It feels good to say it out loud, and have someone listen.”

Geordi was shivering more noticeably, now. He patted Data’s hands and pulled away, somewhat reluctantly. “As warm as you are, I think it might be time to head back.”

Data let his eyes linger on the sky for a few seconds longer, wondering if there was a way to help Geordi see what was before them. He turned; Geordi was already wandering back down the hallway toward their room. After a moment’s hesitation, Data followed suit.

❦

Riker audibly moaned in relief as he cast the heavy cape from his shoulders. Deanna watched him with a small smirk, no doubt wishing she could be rid of her heavy skirt as well. He let the cape fall in a crumpled heap next to the pile of pillows he’d claimed as his own bed, wishing for some kind of seat or sofa. Aside from the pillows and mirrors, the room was devoid of any furniture. The candles flickered around the room with a thousand pin-pricks of wavering light.

The Captain seemed to be the tensest of the three of them, lost in his own world as he frowned over some unseen scenario playing out in his head. Riker watched his expression subtly shift from worry to annoyance.

“Starfleet were clear about reporting any and all potential trouble,” he said eventually, more to himself than to anyone else. “I don’t believe the ‘we didn’t think it was important enough’ story for one minute.”

“If it’s any consolation, Captain, Emperor Shan is completely unworried about the Ak… Aktook—… the Liberated,” Deanna mentioned. “His mind is completely open. I sensed little apprehension from him, only a great greed.”

Picard turned, arms crossed. “What about his advisor, Shi’en? He seemed a lot more worried than the emperor.”

Deanna nodded slowly. “He’s a lot more closed off than the emperor. His mind is foggy to me. I could sense some worry, but I was unable to gauge the extent of his uneasiness. It could be that he is more worried about the agreement than the Liberated.”

“Personally, I’m more concerned about their outlook on rank,” Riker spoke up, turning the other two’s attention to him. _To hell with it_ , he thought, and plopped himself down in his pile of cushions, struggling to find a comfortable position. His legs sang with relief – a full day of dragging his body weight in fabric had taken its toll on his limbs. Picard took his silence as an invitation to add his own point of view.

“Yes, well… your previous worries seem to have come to fruition,” he admitted. “His attitude toward Data _was_ quite blatant.”

“Not to mention blasé,” Riker cut in. “He didn’t even seem to realise that we were all shocked. And he pretty much ignored the rest of us the whole meeting, just like last time.”

Picard sighed. “Well, number one, I’m sorry I brushed you off before. Hopefully it won’t become a problem.”

“If the way Shan treats those of a lower position within our crew is at all reflective of how he treats his own citizens, it’s no wonder he has rebel groups popping up within the less wealthy classes,” Deanna added. She glanced at the tiny window. “Well, if what little darkness I can see from here is any indication of the time, I think I should be heading back to my room.”

They said their goodnights, Deanna slipping from the room. A heavy silence descended as the door swung shut with a dull _clunk_ , the draft blowing out several of the candles closer to the doorway. Riker took a deep breath in, tasting the candle smoke that now tainted the air, and let his head fall back against the pillows as he breathed out. He could have sobbed in relief as his eyes finally shut; he felt like he’d never be able to open them again.

“Will?” Picard asked softly, somewhere nearby. Riker cracked open his eyes with difficulty, fighting off a yawn. The captain looked slightly amused. “Sorry, number one, I’ll let you get some rest.”

Riker propped himself up on an elbow. “No, that’s fine. What were you going to ask?”

Picard sighed, fiddling with the ruffles on his sleeves. He turned away from Riker, toward the mirror. The remaining candles cast light across his golden cape – it reflected onto the floor, twisting and glimmering like a dancer on an empty stage. He didn’t speak, at first, and Riker had almost fallen back into the haze of sleep when he finally did.

“I don’t know how concerned to be about this rebel group,” he mused, seemingly speaking more to himself than to Riker. “If anyone in this away team is at all in danger, I can find an excuse to beam us all back up to the ship, maybe even suggest ending this mission to Starfleet. They won’t like it, of course, but I think I’d be able to convince them if it came down to that.”

Riker rested his head against his arm, eyelids half-mast and threatening to close of their own volition. “You can worry about that in the morning,” he mumbled. “For now, sleep.”

Picard nodded, but Riker could see his unconvinced expression in the mirror’s reflection. He took a deep breath and squared his shoulders, gently unbuttoning his cape and folding it within his arms. Riker took this as an end to the conversation and let his eyes close once more, this time slipping away almost immediately.

“Goodnight, number one.” Picard’s voice sounded a thousand miles away. Riker, although teetering on the edge of asleep and awake, somehow brought himself to mutter an almost incoherent response. His voice felt oddly disembodied.

“Night, captain.”

And with that, he was gone.

❦

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! See you next time :)


	3. Part Three; Marketplace Capers (or, Seasoning the Soup of Stratification)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yayyy, another update! I'm super happy that people have been enjoying this thing so far! I'm absolutely terrible at committing to writing projects, and it's really helpful to be able to see that other people are reading and liking my works -- it gives me motivation to deliver more :))  
> I'm feeling a little contemplative at the moment, and kinda want this fic to live up to the standard of my first ever fic on this site (a different fandom, but by far my best work on here in terms of concept). I've always wanted to write literary fiction, but have never really been able to produce anything above average. I'm thinking of potentially writing another TNG fic that encompasses more of this desire to be provocative lmao. That's in the future, anyhow -- for now, I hope you enjoy this chapter :)  
> (As always, it's close to midnight and I can't be arsed to edit, so I apologise for any glaring grammar mistakes/typos. Hopefully there isn't many.)

**PART THREE**

_Marketplace Capers (or, Seasoning the Soup of Stratification)_

It had taken a fair amount of ‘sucking up’ to convince Picard to accompany them to the Avul’ian grand market. Riker had been on his case since they’d first woken up – hair mussed from sleep and clothes wrinkled, yet still harping on about ‘spending some quality time with his crew’, and the ‘he deserves some R&R after that stress-inducing meeting with the emperor yesterday’. Picard had politely declined, at first (he’d much rather wander the palace and network with various nobles), but had increasingly become firmer in his denial of Riker’s requests. So, his number one had pulled out the big guns.

Well… when he said ‘big guns’, all he meant was a combination of his naturally intimidating stature and some cleverly worded comments about how much easier it would be to gather information that wasn’t limited by economical bias. The market was in what the nobles referred to as the ‘lesser suburbs’ – Riker had tailed him around the room as he prepared himself for the day, practically gushing about all the different viewpoints that would be swirling around in the soup of stratification they’d find in the market. Picard had agreed to go, just to shut him up. Besides, he was eager to learn more about The Liberated, stuff that wasn’t just shifty eyes and vague redirections of the conversation.

The original ‘market team’ was just Deanna, Riker and himself, but once Geordi had learned of their plans he’d invited Data and himself along; and once Worf had learned that the captain and first officer were on the team, he’d insisted on accompanying them with his security officers. As they were making plans about when and where to meet during the day, Deanna had smiled warmly at Ensign Mann and invited her along too (she’d later confessed to Picard that Mann had been feeling increasingly uncomfortable at the prospect of being left alone in the palace). What had originated as a fun little jaunt blew up into a sub-mission of sorts. Scout the marketplace. Talk to locals. Gain information. Maybe sample some more of the local cuisine while they were at it.

Picard couldn’t help but feel out of place as they reconvened a few hours later to descend into the ‘lesser suburbs’ – he was the only one who didn’t have to drag a dead weight around. Riker and Geordi were already rubbing their shoulders, Deanna and Mann gritting their teeth and dealing with the strain of dragging their heavy skirts around. He felt simultaneously relieved and guilty about his own, light cape. He hoped his crew would be able to put up with the awkward clothing for the remainder of their time on the planet.

Riker’s eyes lit up when he saw the captain.

“We’d started to think you might have changed your mind,” he smiled as Picard approached. “You ready to go?”

“As ready as ever,” Picard nodded, and Riker gifted him with a giddy smile that momentarily made his chest go light. He found himself smiling back, finding his first officer’s excitement oddly endearing.

Deanna drew next to him as they began the steep descent from the palace set into the mountainside to the city below. She shot a knowing look at Riker’s back in front of them.

“One of the servants told Will about Avul’ian music customs,” she said. “He’s been keen to find street musicians ever since. Apparently, it’s something akin to big band swing.”

Ah; that would explain his excitement. Picard supposed he could fit in time between questioning locals and gaining information on The Liberated to find some street musicians with Riker. The way the man’s eyes had lit up whenever he’d asked Picard to join them on their outing had struck a chord deep within the captain – he knew he’d feel guilty if he didn’t kick back and relax for at least five minutes.

As the city drew closer below them, the grand market sitting proudly at the centre in a blur of colour, Picard shook himself out of his thoughts. He could look forward to street musicians later. Right now, he wanted to focus on the task at hand. This was an information-gathering mission, after all, and Picard would be damned if he didn’t gather as much information as he could.

❦

The grand market was the most vibrant place Worf had ever seen. It teemed with colours and people, a crowded tapestry of wind-milling limbs and excitement. Avul’ian men and women weaved in and out of the crowd, meandering around the seemingly endless rows of stalls. The air sang with a thousand conversations he couldn’t understand. It was thick with the smell of street food and spice.

Geordi and Riker were practically buzzing, already pointing out some of the strange goods the stalls around them had displayed. Deanna watched them with a fond little smirk. His three security officers stood rigid and professional beside him, but even Worf wasn’t oblivious to the wonder that shone in their eyes. Picard just looked a little overwhelmed.

The captain brought their attention inwards, raising his voice above the clamour of the marketplace. “We’ll split into three groups. I want there to be one security officer with each group at all times. Worf and Harley, you’re with myself and Riker. Mattar, accompany Troi and Mann. Sawyer, stick by Data and LaForge. You can explore as you like, but remember our prime objective – gathering information on the safety and integrity of this place. I’m expecting detailed reports from everyone once we return to the palace. Understand?”

There was a scattering of nods. Picard gestured to the two large stone monoliths that marked the opening of the road that led to the castle. They were each adorned with a large golden sphere that sat at their respective pinnacles in a wondrous feat of gravity-defying balance.

“We’ll meet here at 1300 hours,” the captain said. “They should be visible above the marketplace. If you lose sight of them, let me know and head toward the palace. Please avoid getting into trouble of any shape or form.”

Riker nudged Picard as the other groups moved into the throng.

“Enjoy yourself,” he murmured in a low voice – Worf couldn’t make out the rest. Picard nodded. His shoulders relaxed a little, but his expression remained serious. He turned to face their small group.

“I’d like to get some more information on this ‘Liberated’ group. All I’ve been able to gauge so far is that they’re made up of lower class individuals who occasionally have short riots in the less wealthy suburbs. If we can find out about how frequent and how destructive these riots are…” He trailed off, looking thoughtful.

“You know what?” Riker interjected. “I think the perfect place to start asking is that stall over there. Do my eyes deceive me, or are they selling living pom-poms?”

He looped a hand around Picard’s upper arm and pulled him through the crowd, toward a tent crammed full of small cages. Worf gestured at Harley to follow, keeping his eyes and ears alert for any sign of trouble. The security officer dodged a few small children as they weaved in between legs, chasing each other. He caught himself on Worf’s arm.

“Be careful,” Worf warned, “they could be pickpockets.”

Harley patted the various pockets sewn into his Avul’ian clothing. “Doesn’t feel like they took anything. D’ya really reckon there’s pickpockets here?”

“Maybe. We have to assume the worst,” Worf grunted, and pulled Harley out of the throes of the crowd and into the relative tranquility of the tent where Riker and Picard were conversing with the stall owner.

The pom-poms, as it turned out, were not pom-poms at all, but rather a form of docile, domesticated life. Similar to tribbles in appearance (and possibly sharing an evolutionary branch with the things), they were barely able to push themselves around with six under-formed limbs that folded beneath their bodies. Their ‘eyes’ were a single photosensitive dome that sat at one end of their body, able to detect changes in light but not much else. They chattered and whistled to each other as Riker convinced the stall owner to let him hold one. It was roughly the size of a watermelon, and draped itself over his arms as he cradled it against his chest.

He said something that Worf couldn’t hear, and stepped closer to Picard. The captain shook his head.

“Oh, go on, sir. They’re so soft,” Riker encouraged. Tentatively, Picard reached out a hand and stiffly stroked the thing’s puff of fur. Riker beamed at him, cuddling it closer. He gestured at Worf and Harley to have a go with a jerk of his head.

He was right – the beings were almost impossibly soft. Worf carded his fingers through its fluff once before retracting his hand. “It is satisfactory,” he admitted, which made Riker grin even wider. Harley looked elated, although it was clear he was trying to remain on-edge and stoic, like Worf.

Picard struck up a conversation with the stall owner, still absentmindedly stroking the animal in Riker’s arms.

“I was wondering if you’d ever heard of ‘The Liberated’,” he asked. The stall owner, a tall woman sporting a skirt similar to Deanna and Mann’s, gifted him a crooked grin.

“’Course I have,” she smiled. “Everyone around here’s heard of them – they’re the ones that’ll bring us into the Light, soon.”

❦

Geordi was content to stay silent as he listened to Data babble on about his observations on the peculiar Avul’ian language. The inability of their universal translators to interpret large swathes of the language had confused the android, at first, but after doing some digging he had found that the latest linguistic logs on Otrarvis detailed _two_ common languages, not one – it just so happened that there was only sufficient data collection on one of these, so the translators only converted that. Geordi wasn’t sure if he liked the implications of the Avul’a having a ‘secret language’ that they could exchange messages in. Then again, he supposed that reflected more about his own mistrust than about the Avul’a, a thought which sent a brief flash of guilt burning through his chest.

They wandered aimlessly around the marketplace, taking in the sights and sounds, tucking information about the life and culture of the Avul’a. The deep-seated mistrust of the less wealthy classes that flickered within the hearts of the nobles seemed arbitrary, now that he had been plunged into their world himself. He was greeted with smiles and salutations wherever he looked; he could feel nothing malicious in the air that surrounded him like soup. It incited a happy giddiness within him, as if he was dancing across a precipice that would ultimately lead him to the very summit of his life and dreams.

It took him a few moments to realise that Data had stopped talking, instead gazing at him with a curiously indecipherable expression. He shook himself out of the happy haze his thoughts had encompassed him in, shooting a grin at his android friend.

“How’re you enjoying all this, huh?” he asked, spreading his arms to gesture at the grandeur around them.

“It is an incomparable opportunity to gather information on the Avul’ian race,” he responded, after a moment of thought. “I am intrigued by the culture and customs of this planet, and possessing the ability to experience these in person is presenting itself as a most enthralling prospect.”

His gaze softened, and he lowered his voice far enough so that Sawyer, a few steps behind them, couldn’t hear. “I am glad I get to experience this with you.”

His voice was soft and genuine; Geordi had a sudden urge to crush him in an embrace. He settled with touching Data’s arm and returning the sentiment. The alluring taste of alien spices that tinged the air increased exponentially as a crashing realisation swept Geordi’s brain forth in a deluge of indiscernible feelings; he wanted to remain by Data’s side for the rest of eternity, even if that meant floating in the darkness of uncertainty while the universe fizzled out and died around them.

Sawyer caught up with them and pointed out a stall that appeared to be selling the same dish they’d been treated to at the banquet on their first night. Geordi internally separated his rational mindset from the strings of desire that had begun to spin in his gut. He could deal with that hurdle when it had solidified a little more, down the track. For now, he had to sample this street food that had been discussed so dismissively by his company at the first banquet – the bar was set low, and Geordi was confident that his expectations would be blown.

He gave Data an award-winning smile and playfully linked arms with him, moving through the crowd toward the food stall.

❦

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking around! I'll see you next time, when the glorious revolution kicks off...


	4. Part Four; Dubious Control

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay, another update :)  
> I'm genuinely surprised by the amount of attention this work is getting, aha. It's not much but it's still way more than I was expecting, especially for a gore oneshot that has since turned into a slowburn. Anyway, thank you guys so much for the comments and kudos, and happy reading!

**PART FOUR**

_Dubious Control_

Geordi woke to shouting. Deep, gruff, and slightly crazed shouting. At first, his sleep-addled brain was confused; he couldn’t make out any familiar phrases in the chorus of yells parading down the corridor outside. His heart started to pound as he became more alert, adrenaline chasing away what little remnants of sleep still weighted his eyelids. He couldn’t make out any phrases because it wasn’t Standard – no, it was the harsh, guttural tones of the uncharted Avul’ian mother tongue.

He felt around and slipped his VISOR on, greeted by Data leaning over him with a hand on his arm. Confused, he looked around the room. It seemed to still be dark outside (judging by the lack of light peeking through the tiny window), although most of the candles scattered around the room had burned out and become solid puddles of wax that looked like tiny lava flows. Another shout ripped through the air, louder and closer.

“Geordi,” Data said earnestly, “I believe there may be a potentially dangerous situation unfolding outside.”

He stuck close to Data as they slipped through the door, a certain feeling of safety exuding from the taller man. The unmistakable forms of Avul’ian men and women flitted about beyond the corridor, yet none ventured down it. Geordi didn’t know whether to feel happy or unsettled by that. Data gestured to the other end of the corridor, toward the open-ended ‘balcony’, where the rest of the Enterprise away team had already gathered. They were all peering down the mountain, heads craned over the sudden edge of the balcony to stare at something below. Geordi’s un-shoed feet were quiet as he and Data made their way toward the others.

Even from the height of the palace, they could see the gyrating crowd that had gathered in the marketplace, and hear the wash of sound that the amassed thousands sent crawling up the mountainside. Pin-pricks of light from fire-tipped torches glimmered in the fray; the roar of angry citizens played upon the air. The away team stood in grim silence on the balcony, watching the people swirling below them.

Geordi swept his eyes over their small group. Data stood behind him, as formal and seemingly unaffected as he usually looked. Riker and Picard whispered to each other some steps away, either man’s forehead creased in concern. Worf and his security officers had formed a small group against the adjacent wall, right behind the two girls who remained silent, eyes trained on the crowd below. Geordi suppressed a shiver and ran his hands across his arms, wondering how any of them could stand to be out in the cold of the night with no warm clothing.

Footsteps approaching from behind them prompted the group to turn – an Avul’ian maid hurried nervously down the corridor toward them. Picard stepped forward to greet her.

“Do you know what’s happening, down there?” he asked.

The maid didn’t meet his eye. “Emperor Shan sent me to reassure you,” she said. “He says that there is no need to worry, and that he has the situation under control. He’d like you to join him for breakfast.”

“But what’s going on?” Picard asked, more firmly, eyes hardening a little. The maid flinched, despite being a good few heads taller than him.

“It’s only a small riot, sir. Emperor Shan has the situation under control. Breakfast will be in the dining hall in half an hour.”

“Doesn’t look very small to me,” Riker cut in. “Do you know anything more about it?”

The maid opened her mouth, then closed it. Her feline eyes darted from Picard’s face to Riker’s. She shook her head wordlessly, shrinking in on herself a little. Deanna leant toward the captain, speaking in a low voice.

“I’m sensing fear and reluctance from her. I believe she knows something more than what she’s telling us, sir.”

Picard nodded wordlessly, but didn’t press his questions upon the girl. She took a few steps backwards, bowing her head to them, then turned and hurried back the way she had come. Geordi glanced at Data, wondering what he made of the situation. The torches dipped and swayed below them; the crowd shouted and squabbled. Geordi shivered as a cool breeze oozed through the open end of the corridor; he drew back from the edge a little, the crowd disappearing from view.

Worf wrinkled his nose. “I don’t like it,” he said gruffly.

“There’s not a lot we can do about it,” Picard murmured, turning his eyes back to the gathering in the marketplace.

Riker took a deep breath, levelling his eyes on Picard. “We could go back to the Enterprise, sir.”

“No,” Picard said, firmly. “No, by doing that we’d be insinuating that we don’t trust Shan’s word.”

“Well, we’ll send up just you, then. The rest of us can stay down here, we can say that something came up—”

“Number one,” Picard spoke sharply. “None of us are in any immediate danger, and we’re not going to go against Starfleet’s wishes because we feel uneasy. I know it’s not an ideal situation, but we just have to deal with it. We’ll have breakfast with the emperor, and reassess the situation afterward. If I feel the need to beam a few extra security officers down, I will.”

Riker looked away, fixing his eyes on the distant mountains that framed the horizon. He sighed, shoulders tense. “Breakfast it is,” he muttered tersely, and turned to sweep back down the corridor to his room. Geordi watched him go, subtly drawing closer to Data as the noise of the crowd swelled with another puff of breeze.

Deanna touched Picard’s shoulder, drawing him out of the brief yet troubled haze of thought he’d slipped into at Riker’s departure.

“The maid said that breakfast would be in half an hour, sir. I suggest we all return to our rooms and make ourselves look a little more presentable.”

Picard nodded distractedly, glancing back down the mountain. “Yes, I suppose we should. Wash, get dressed – we’ll meet at the other end of the corridor at… Data, what’s the time?”

“Six hundred hours, sir.”

“We’ll meet at 6:15. Look good for the emperor.”

The group disbanded.

❦

Riker was already dressed and decorated by the time Picard slipped into the room. Their little clash in the corridor five minutes ago still hung in the air between them; Riker toyed with one of the many melted candles as the captain dressed himself, distracting himself with fascination for the ancient source of light. The wax had dribbled away overnight, collecting in solid white drifts around the crater made by the now-blackened wick.

“Number one,” Picard spoke behind him, breaking the silence. Riker glanced over his shoulder.

Picard was shrugging his cape on, watching him with gently eyes. He sighed. “I don’t like how things are turning out any more than you do. If it were up to me, we’d be on the ship.”

Riker rose, abandoning the candle. “Yeah,” he said, and left it at that.

Picard seemed to understand. He offered Riker a small, stiff, and somewhat awkward smile, then hissed under his breath and tugged at his cape.

“Blasted thing, why won’t you sit properly?” he muttered under his breath, turning abruptly to scrutinise himself in the mirror. Riker felt a smile alight his own lips as he watched the captain struggle with the cape for a moment. The tension in the air seemed to dissipate. He could see Picard’s annoyed expression through the mirror.

“Here, let me.” A few steps brought him up behind the captain, reaching around him to re-fasted the cape. He ran his hands down Picard’s shoulders, flattening out the glistening gold fabric. Picard wore an indiscernible expression, posture stiff as Riker adjusted the cape, chest so close to his back that he could feel the captain’s body heat. He tensed as Riker’s hands ventured lower, turning out the edges of the cape that had twisted in on themselves. Riker paused, and drew his hands back up to Picard’s shoulders.

“Relax, sir. You’ll be tense enough after having breakfast next to the emperor.”

Picard’s unreadable expression broke. “Next you’ll be offering me a massage,” he grumbled, but let his shoulders relax a little as he breathed out. Riker smiled at him through the mirror, patting his arm gently and moving back.

“Thank you, number one,” Picard said (somewhat brusquely), after a moment’s hesitation. He turned, his cape flaring out behind him dramatically. Riker couldn’t suppress a laugh, wishing his own cape swirled so theatrically when he walked. He wouldn’t pretend that it didn’t suit the captain, however – there was something oddly alluring about stiff, uptight Picard donning something so flowing and graceful.

There was a swell of sound outside as someone crossed the corridor outside their door. Picard stepped toward the door, cape flowing after him like a slipstream. Riker could imagine the way the golden fabric would sent light skittering madly across the room, had the candles been lit. The way that it would flush outwards if Picard thrust a hand out suddenly, or how it would drape neatly over his form and puddle on the floor if he sat. There was no doubt abssout it – Riker was unbelievably jealous of Picard’s cape.

“Riker?” Picard asked, somewhat irked– a subtle ‘ _well, are you coming or not?_ ’.

Riker heaved his own cape across the room and smiled. “Let’s hope the food is better than the company.”

❦

The look on Geordi’s face as he savoured every mouthful of food was confusing to say the least. Data found himself glancing across the table at the engineer during the breaks in conversation. From here it looked like a bizarre mix of pleasure and longing – he couldn’t tell if Geordi was enjoying the food or hated it. He filed the expression under ‘ask Geordi later’.

The Avul’ian man seated to his right leant over and nudged him, noisily chewing his own breakfast (an air-filled puff of pastry vaguely resembling a pancake, swimming in a thick green sauce). He gestured to Geordi with a sticky hand.

“He’s your mate, no?”

“My… mate? If you are referring to the informal term denoting a friendship between individuals, you are correct. If you are instead referring to the term attributed to a sexual partner, no. Geordi is my best friend.”

A blossom of… _something_ went through Data’s positronic network, making him falter. It was a subconscious habit he’d developed recently; a short pulse that would echo through him in response to various situations. Data didn’t know what to make of it yet. He still didn’t know if it was pleasant or not. He’d experienced the same pulse several times during their trip to the marketplace. All had been in response to Geordi. It had happened too many times and with too clear of a pattern to be a random anomaly – he’d have to bring it up with Geordi later.

The man chuckled and shoveled another dripping handful of green sauce into his mouth. “If he _is_ your mate, you make that known. The women have been calling him ‘ _A’chtuk’shAl_ ’, you know. Ain’t that right, Ingera?”

The woman on Data’s left giggled and turned her head, nodding in agreement. “ _A’chtuk’shAl_ ,” she hummed in a singsong voice. The word was similar to the name of the rebel group. Geordi was liberated, perhaps? Data didn’t quite understand.

“What does _A’chtuk’shAl_ mean?” Data asked curiously.

The woman tittered again, resting a gentle hand on Data’s arm. In his periphery, he could see Geordi take notice from the other side of the table, a frown marring his features.

“It means ‘free’,” the man said, almost leeringly. “You understand, no?”

Data did not. He shook his head.

“He’s sexually free, he’s a whore,” said the woman suddenly, and Data bristled.

“Geordi is not—“

The man’s grin dropped and he widened his eyes at the woman. “Maybe they _are_ mates,” he suggested, and she drew her hand back.

Data’s sharp response was interrupted by the sight of Shi’en slipping through one of the many doors lining the walls of the hall. He hurried toward the emperor, face drawn, and whispered something in his ear. Shan said something back, eyes flashing worriedly. He waved Shi’en off, turning back to his conversation with Picard. A lighthearted grin was painted on his face, but even from this distance Data could see the way Shan had tensed up. Data made eye contact with Riker from across the table. The commander looked concerned – evidently, he’d witnessed the interaction as well. His blue eyes grabbed hold of Data’s gaze, conveying a message all too well.

There was something wrong.

❦


	5. Part Five; Etiquette Has No Place in The Revolution

**PART FIVE**

_Etiquette Has No Place in The Revolution_

A dark feeling had struck itself to life deep within Riker’s chest, much like a match striking into flame. The match had been risen, poised to strike, that morning as they’d gazed down at the protestors in the market place – it had begun its descent when he’d challenged Picard and met with an unmoving wall. Now it struck, bursting into flame, propagated by Shi’en’s worried expression as he whispered to the emperor and hurried off. His eyes met Data’s across the table – the android had clearly seen the interaction also.

Picard said something to Shan than Riker couldn’t quite make out over the noise of over a hundred dining Avul’a. The emperor waved him off and stuck into his food again, but Riker didn’t miss the way his shoulders tensed and eyes darted across the hall as if he were bracing himself for something. Riker had a nasty feeling that whatever Shi’en had told him had something to do with the mass gathered in the marketplace. He felt too ill to eat – how could they be perched up in the glorious palace, eating glorious food, while the poor rioted below them? How could any of the nobles stand to eat, knowing that those in the city at the foot of the mountain suffered enough to take up arms?

These thoughts followed him throughout the decidedly uneasy breakfast. Riker didn’t know if the nobles around him didn’t know about the riot, or if they just didn’t care – either way, they seemed perfectly content, their manner betraying not even the slightest worry at the situation unfolding below. Riker himself felt jumpy and on edge; he felt like he ought to be more used to being completely in the dark by now, but somehow his lack of knowledge niggled at his brain in a way that made it impossible to ignore.

The room felt too small. The loud chatter of a banquet hall filled with feasting individuals, the heat that couldn’t escape from the windowless room, the cloying and sickly-sweet scent of the food, the piercing gold of the walls, the uneasiness that licked at his mind when he considered the riot outside… it all blended together into an overwhelming rush of senses, choking him and making his head spin. He felt an almost unbeatable urge to jump up and run out of the hall, find a quiet spot with fresh air where he could ball up forever and forget everything. He was so tired.

Instead, Riker closed his eyes and forced his thumping heart into submission, exhaling as he opened his eyes once more. He drew the attention of one of the servants flitting around the walls of the hall.

“Is there a bathroom close by?” he asked, mustering up a grateful smile. The maid smiled back, yellow eyes wandering across his face.

“Of course, sir, follow me.”

Riker didn’t miss the look of concern Picard threw him as he followed the maid out of the hall.

Disappointingly, the bathrooms were much like the ones near their own rooms. Riker wasn’t entirely sure what he’d been expecting – certainly not sonic showers and modern toilets, that was for sure – but couldn’t deny the fact his heart sunk a little when he was deposited in front of the facilities by the still-smiling maid. He was about to enter when she caught his arm.

“Sir,” she said, voice low and face stormy. It was if her smile had never even existed in the first place. Riker was a little taken aback by her sudden change in mood. “Sir, you must return to your ship.”

The sick feeling swelled. Riker searched the maid’s eyes, realising suddenly that she was the same one from that morning – the one who’d invited them to breakfast, the one who Deanna had said was hiding something. She certainly didn’t look scared anymore, no, now she had an air of defiance that almost seem ominous. It didn’t sit right with him. He wanted to speak, but had the sickening feeling that he’d just throw up if he opened his mouth.

“You must return to your ship as quickly as you can,” the maid repeated, “they’re not going to wait the whole morning. They’ll kill you all, sir, even if they understand you’re not one of them. Being around them is bad enough, in their eyes.”

Riker felt his mind starting to fold in on itself. The maid’s tirade was a frantic wash of confusion. He knew he ought to have more questions, but couldn’t quite fabricate any upon his tongue – instead he just stared at her with a frown. All of a sudden, he found himself aware of a constant clamour somewhere within the palace, a wash of shouts that he swore hadn’t been there before. It was like the faint roar of crowd in the marketplace, but louder. Riker’s heart dropped, even before his brain had really worked out what it might mean.

The maid looked away from him, down the corridor, a certain calmness descending over her. It felt dangerous, somehow.

“It’s too late,” she sighed, “they’re in. Quick, sir, into the bathroom. Hide there for as long as you can, then go back to your ship.”

Riker’s inability to speak snapped, and he stuttered as she ushered him into the bathroom. “What? What do you mean? I have to get back to—“

“Your friends will probably not be so lucky,” the maid interrupted coolly. “You must hide, sir. You can’t help them if you don’t hide.”

The bathroom was a large, open space – there were no stalls or places to hide himself behind. He pressed himself against the wall, still confused, panic leaping into his throat as the rough shouts grew louder still. The maid pressed a finger to her lips, then swept from the room, the door swinging shut behind her just as the shouting reached a crescendo. Riker closed his eyes and tried to even his breathing, beating the urge to throw up back down. His mind vaguely registered what was happening – he could put two and two together, even in his overwhelmed state – but that didn’t stop confusion from clouding his mind.

He could hear the maid talking to someone in the corridor.

“Don’t worry, I’ve just come from in there – there’s no one. They’re all at the banquet hall, gorging themselves.”

Riker strained his ears. Were those footsteps coming toward him or going away? He sunk to the ground, back still against the wall, trying to make sense of the sudden rush of action. He didn’t have a phaser with him (Starfleet had been adamant in the fact that only security should carry phasers on this mission), which meant leaving the bathroom was a no-go; he’d just have to wait until whatever this was had calmed down. He had a pretty good idea of ‘whatever this was’, anyway, though he didn’t like the ugly ‘I-told-you-so’ feeling that reared its head when he thought of it.

The riot had progressed; the citizens were in the palace.

❦

Something in the air felt tense, and Worf didn’t like it. His survival instinct had kicked in somewhere between their corridor and the banquet hall, and only grew stronger as he watched Riker follow a maid out, face pallid. He glanced at the captain – Picard was watching Riker’s receding back, doing a poor job at masking the worry etched into his face. Something wasn’t right, yet Worf couldn’t quite place his finger on what. Although it did make him uneasy, he was sure it wasn’t the juxtaposition about dining in this grand palace while a riot raged outside; no, it was something more sinister than that. Something deeper.

Worf shot a look at Sawyer, trying to convey his disquiet through his eyes alone. Sawyer seemed to understand, nudging Ensign Mann next to him and whispering something to her. Her expression grew stormy as she responded in a similar fashion. Mattar, near Picard and the emperor at the head of the table, seemed to have read into their silent conversation too; when Worf glanced over to him, he nodded slightly as if to say ‘ _don’t worry, sir, I’m ready for whatever happens next_ ’. Harley was down the other end of the table, hidden from view by the looming figures of a few Avul’ian women. Frustration spiked through him – he wished he could just comm the man and tell him to be on his guard, but he didn’t want to alert the nobles dining around him of the crew’s shared apprehension.

The woman beside Worf gestured for a servant to fill up her cup, holding the empty crystal glass out behind her without looking. After a moment, she made a sound of discontent and gestured again, this time twisting backwards to shoot an annoyed look at the walls, where the servants hovered. She exclaimed something loudly in the Avul’ian mothertongue, pushing her chair back to turn completely and scan the room. Worf followed suit, trying to work out her confusion.

It hit him suddenly – the servants had all disappeared. Where there had been fifteen or twenty servants lining each wall not five minutes ago, there was now only the gleaming golden floors and decorated walls. Worf’s feeling of self-preservation grew stronger still, and he resisted the urge to reach for his phaser, hoping that his security team had picked up on this strange observation as well. Something was really, really wrong, and it struck Worf the wrong way.

The surprise of the woman beside him spread through the room like a ripple, dampening conversations and thrusting an uncomfortable silence onto the dining nobles as they each laid down their food and peered curiously around the room in turn. The scene bore a striking resemblance to that moment of complete tranquility before an explosion in those old films Alexander had forced him to watch; the calm before a storm, if you like. Worf’s fingers itched for his phaser, but he held himself back.

Perhaps if he’d ignored his self-control and allowed his instincts to take over his hands, he would have been a little more prepared for the sudden ambush, as Avul’a clad in torn clothes burst from the doors and flooded the hall. As it was, the sudden clamour of howled shouts from the rioters (because that’s clearly who they were, Worf found himself thinking, even through the haze of chaos) and the screams of nobles as they were dragged from their chairs disorientated him enough for one of the rioters to rip his phaser from his hands before he could use it.

The rioter didn’t speak as he threw Worf a crazed, merciless grin and crushed the phaser beneath his heel – Worf didn’t know how he’d managed to avoid an explosion, destroying the weapon in that manner, but he was glad regardless – before trying to pull him backwards. Worf vaguely wondered why he hadn’t seen or heard any other phasers going off from his security team, before he let his instincts wash over him and fought back.

He fought with more passion than he’d ever fought with in his life. He channeled all his strength, all his rage, into sweeping off the swarm of attackers and trying to reach where he’d last seen the captain. For a while there, it looked as if he might actually be getting somewhere – the rioters had clearly never fought properly before, and each was apprehended fairly easily. However, the relentless flow of Avul’a onto him, pummelling him into submission with their amateur skills and windmilling limbs, began to grate on him.

Worf fought, but was no match for their numbers. They swamped him and subdued him; he found himself panting on the floor, too exhausted to fight anymore. Around him, the rioters had driven the nobles to their knees. Worf couldn’t make out anyone he recognised in the churning crowd. Where was the captain? Was he alright? Why hadn’t any of the other phasers been fired?

A grinning Avul’ian woman leapt onto the table, hair tangled and feline eyes crazed. With a wide kick, she swept dishes and jugs clattering onto the floor.

“FRIENDS!” she yelled to the masses; they roared and cheered, pressing in on the nobles. “FRIENDS, OUR TIME HAS COME! AND SO TOO HAS THE DAY OF RECKONING! WE SHALL BE BROUGHT INTO THE LIGHT!”

The rioters roared. Worf felt the weight of a thousand hands pressing him into the floor, daring him to try fight again. He relented, wanting nothing more than to break all their necks but finding himself too exhausted to even think about standing up.

“THE TIME HAS COME! TO THE BALLROOM!” the woman cried, and Worf felt himself being dragged to his aching feet as the crowd caterwauled and screamed around him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay, the revolution is upon us! Hope you guys are all doing well, and I hope you enjoyed the update :)


	6. Part Six; An Impromptu Execution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: GRAPHIC VIOLENCE, GORE, SWEARING.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll do a basic rundown of the chapter in the notes at the end if you want to skip over the violence. It'll have all the key points in it without the gore parts!

**PART SIX**

_ An Impromptu Execution _

He couldn’t see Data. 

The crowd of rioters churned around Geordi, hands dragging him forward to stumble with them; a confusing rush of shining walls and leering faces as he tripped and struggled and tried to keep his feet under his body to avoid being trampled. In his panic, he couldn’t discern anything but a glowing mass through his visor. He frantically scanned the mass, trying to somehow catch a glimpse of Data, to find him and fight his way to him. He stumbled, his eyes being torn from his search as his knees hit the floor, hard. He was dragged up again, an Avul’ian woman dipping her face close to him.

“Keep up,  _ ka’chtAka’ _ ,” she spat, eyes crazed and excited. 

His legs aching, Geordi kept stumbling with the crowd. He wished the hands grasping his clothes from what seemed like every direction would back off. They kept tugging him every which way, pushing and pulling — he felt sure he’d hit the ground again. The woman’s grasp around his forearm was almost unbearably tight. Every now and then she’d glance back at him, as if she was checking to make sure he was still there, then grin widely and turn back to follow the flow of the crowd.

Eventually, the crowd stilled — Geordi was pulled forward. The hands holding onto him trailed away, and he was pushed to the ground, his visor sending a spike of pain through his head as it was jolted slightly out of position. He reached up to adjust it, gasping as the sole of a boot found the small of his back and kicked him against the ground. 

“Control yourself, freak,” someone growled. “I’ve got a  _ k’LePon _ trained on your fucking skull,  _ ka’chtAka _ ’.”

Geordi didn’t have to ask what a ‘k’LePon’ was — he understood the implication perfectly. His eyes ached, vision blurring as his visor slipped even further out of position. This time he grimaced and put up with it, not wanting to incur the wrath of whichever rioter felt the need to threaten him with a weapon. He could hear the wails of various nobles before him, keeping his eyes trained on the ground. Pain ebbed behind his eyes; he squeezed them shut, taking a deep breath. If only he could move his hand a little, push his visor back on… Geordi balled his fists against his sides, trying to disconnect himself from the ache.

Where was Data? Geordi had lost sight of him when the banquet hall had first been flooded. He knew that Data could take care of himself, he wasn’t worried about that — but he was scared, and wanted his friend’s safe presence now, more than anything. He wanted to be able to see that Data was alright for himself, and let Data know that he was alright in turn; or, rather, he would be alright if he was just able to adjust his damn visor. He cringed as the throb of pain ached through his mind again. 

“What’s this?” giggled the person behind him, reaching over his back to tap the visor. “Is it some sort of weapon?”

“No, it’s—” Geordi started, before the boot was back between his shoulder blades.

“Shut up!” they growled, and Geordi felt something hard push against the back of his head — undoubtedly the k’LePon they had threatened him with. He fell silent, squeezing his eyes shut once more and wondering where the hell Data was for the hundredth time. A hand reached over his shoulder and grasped his visor, ripping it from his head. Geordi choked back a cry as white-hot pain seared through him, gritting his teeth. The lonely emptiness he was all-too-familiar with had engulfed him once more, and Geordi felt his barely-contained panic mounting at the prospect of being blind during this ordeal.

“Whatever it is, it’s fucking trash now,” the rioter snickered. Geordi heard something drop to the ground to his right, his heart dropping as the sickening crunch of someone grinding their foot over it followed. The crushed remains of his visor were kicked into his chest. This time, when he made to scoop them up, there were no boots to his back or threats; the rioter just laughed again, the sound swallowed by a sudden deafening swell of cheering and whooping. 

Geordi held his destroyed visor to his chest helplessly, ears straining to work out what was going on in lieu of his eyes. Where was Data? Was he okay? Over the screams of the crowd, he heard a single voice carry over — he thought he recognised it as the woman who’d jumped onto the table in the banquet hall. 

“FRIENDS!” she cried, and the hall fell silent (save for the sobs and wails of the wretched nobles). “FRIENDS, I PRESENT TO YOU—”

❦

“—OUR GLORIOUS AND RADIANT RULER, THE MAGNIFICENT EMPEROR SHAN!” the woman crowed, flinging her arms melodramatically out to the edge of the small stage at the head of the ballroom, where a group of Avul’a in tattered clothing held the struggling emperor down. Picard recognised their raggard dress and grimy skin as that of the few slaves he’d seen around the palace. They’d been sullen and downtrodden each time he’d caught a glimpse of them in the prior week — now, they each wore violent and hysterical grins, leering down at the emperor in a similar fashion to the way he’d leered at them. 

Deanna shifted beside him, her hand grasping his own a little tighter as the crowd roared. Ensign Mann sat on her right, fingers wrapped around her other hand — it had been the ensign’s split-second idea to hold hands, actually, to prevent them from being separated in the chaotic rush to the ballroom. There had been a few times when he’d completely lost sight of the two, and he’d been relieved for the firm grip of Deanna’s hand on his own. Picard scanned the crowd for any sign of the rest of the away team; nothing. Had they been wearing their Starfleet uniforms, it might have been a lot easier to spot them amongst the restless rioters. Then again, his position on the ground didn’t help much, at all.

Picard’s eyes were drawn back to the stage at the frightened wail Shan uttered as the ‘slaves’ dragged him forward, forcing him to his knees in front of the woman. She grinned at him, cat-like eyes brimming with violent satisfaction.

“I don’t think I need to tell you how much you are  _ hated _ ,” she spat in his face, voice still loud enough to carry through the hall. “I don’t think you’re surprised that it’s come to this, either. I’m not a cruel woman, I’m not going to torture you or go on some long spiel about oppression. I am, however, going to kill you. So answer this, just this one little question before you go below to meet the Glorious Lady Ignesha at the end of the world — did you enjoy it? Did you like watching us all suffer while you sat up here in your glowing castle? Did it give you a spike of exhilaration, Shan, to know you had us pinned below your palm?”

Shan ground his teeth and stared into her eyes. “You will refer to me as Emperor!” he hissed, a last-ditch attempt to reassert his power. 

The woman sighed, and reached down toward her ankle. “You disappoint me,  _ Shan _ . Then again, you always have. Are you ready to meet Ignesha, Shan?”

She slid something from her shoe and raised it high above her head, seeming to revel in the cacophony raised by the crowd. Picard strained his eyes to make out what it was, but the windmilling limbs of the rioters blocked his view. He could see Shan whimper and cry and try to scramble backwards, held in place by the grimy slaves. Deanna gasped beside him, her grip on his hand turning crushing — he frantically tilted his head to try and work out what was happening. A glint of metal caught his eye. The woman had some sort of angular knife grasped between two hands, poised above Shan’s head.

“SHOW US THE LIGHT!” the woman screamed, and plunged the knife deep into Shan’s throat. Horrified screams began to rip through the air from the nobles as Shan gasped, scarlet blood gurgling from his lips. The woman smiled at him, red staining her fingers like paint, and yanked the knife from his neck in a slick motion, a string of blood following it. It seemed to float, for a moment, before gravity caught up and it spun with a splatter onto the ground. Shan choked and tried to cry out, but the sound only drowned and died in his throat. The woman tossed the knife to the slaves — they all scrambled to grasp the slippery handle, letting Shan fall to the ground before them. Deanna hid her head in Mann’s shoulder as the crowd descended upon the stage.

❦

Data could hear someone crying loudly behind him. He tried to throw a look at Worf, lying on the ground a few metres away with at least four Avul’a sitting on top of him holding him down, but a grubby rioter beside him poked his shoulder and told him to keep his eyes on the performance in a sing-song voice. Data had already spotted the phaser he had grasped in his furry hands, presumably taken from one of the security officers. He turned his eyes back to the gory scene unfolding before them. 

Data had never quite understood what compelled people to commit voluntary acts of violence. He could understand self-defence, he could understand the compulsions of certain mental illnesses (but only after Deanna had spent a good half an hour trying to explain that to him), but he still hadn’t wrapped his head around what motivated people to harm others when they didn’t have to. He may be somewhat socially awkward, but Data still could recognise the oppression suffered by the lower classes of Avul’ian society — he could recognise the fact that the people rioting around him had been maltreated by what could very well be seen as a tyrannical monarchy. Despite this acknowledgment of the persecution of the lower classes, Data still couldn’t understand what force drove them to crowd around their emperor now, hands ripping at his clothing, his skin, his hair and eyes; painting themselves red with his blood and laughing as he gasped weakly for air on the ground in front of them, throat ruptured and oozing life. 

The woman who’d stabbed emperor Shan stood off to the side, sticky arms folded across her chest, watching her fellow rioters kick and beat his body. Eventually, she held up a fist and plunged back into the crowd, scattering them away from his body. 

“The Book of The Light describes death as sacred,” she mused, voice raised over the din. A hush fell over the rioters. Nobles sobbed and wailed all around them. “A body, once touched by death, may not be touched with ill force ever again, lest the departed soul be subjected to the wrath of The Lady. Even the bodies of our mortal enemies slain in battle must not be abused by us — we let their soldiers collect them in peace, just as they let us collect our dead. But here, friends, here lies a wretched man who deserves the very worst. Here lies a man — nae, a monster — who deserves every inch of torture The Lady will bring upon him. I turn from the Light for a minute, friends, to spit upon this man. May his soul be eternally damned!”

With this, she placed a boot on Shan’s limp head and stomped his face in. Even Worf closed his eyes to this, cheek pressed firmly against the ground by the hands of angry people. Despite the violent glee simmering in the air, many of the rioters themselves turned away, muttering what Data could only speculate were prayers of sorts. The defacing of bodies was a sin explored in countless cultures across the galaxy — did not just the Trojans, but also the Greeks weep to see Hector disfigured at the hands of Achilles? — and evidently the Avul’a shared this sentiment strongly. Data was once again intrigued by this propensity to mindless violence, wondering why the woman had felt this urge to ‘turn from the light’, as she had put it, when she could have just have easily left him. He decided to ask Geordi about it later (provided that he was able to find Geordi first, of course).

He used the lull as an opportunity to glance around, trying to spot anyone he recognised. Worf, of course, was still being held down by what now seemed like more Avul’a than before in front of him. Maybe ten metres away, amongst a group of sobbing noble women, Sawyer and Mattar sat back-to-back, both their heads turned away from the crushed skull of Shan. He thought he saw a glimpse of Deanna’s dark hair somewhere near the front of the hall, but the crowd shifted and obscured it before he could confirm that it was her. Geordi was nowhere to be seen. Data assumed that meant he was somewhere near the front, also.

The woman kicked Shan’s body away from her, shoving it off the stage with her boot. She muttered something and spat on it, spitefully, then turned to rake her eyes over the nobles being held along the edges of the ballroom. 

“Don’t worry, you won’t end up like him,” she said. “Your executions will be swift, and your bodies will remain untarnished after death. Friends, we shall bring some semblance of order to this chaotic sight! We shall take them to the Grand Courtyard in groups, and execute them there. We’ll split them into three — wall by wall.”

She spun around and pointed to the wall that Data had thought he’d seen Deanna. “That one first. Friends, stand them up and march them outside. The Light will touch them, very soon.”

❦

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Basic summary w/o gore:  
> \- The nobles + the away team are taken to the ballroom, where they are forced to sit around the perimeter. Geordi is threatened, and his visor is taken from him and smashed.  
> \- Geordi is alone near the front, while Picard, Deanna and Ensign Mann are up the front on the opposite side of the room. The woman who stood on the table last chapter drags Emperor Shan to the front of the stage and executes him in front of the crowd.  
> \- Data is near the back of the room, near Worf (who is being held down) and within sight of two of the security officers. The woman allows the body of Shan to be defaced, which is an unspeakable sin in Avul'ian culture -- they believe that defacing the body after death means that the soul of that body will be tortured in the afterlife (Data references Achilles and Hector to illustrate this aversion to disfiguring a body).   
> \- The woman then makes the decision to take the nobles out in groups and execute them in the courtyard. She orders that they be taken out in three groups, wall by wall. The wall that Picard, Deanna and Mann are sitting at is chosen to be first.
> 
> Thanks for reading, and I hope you liked the chapter! Things are heating up :) We've finally gotten to the first gory bit!!! Yay!! I've mentioned this before, but I'm going to say it again -- this thing was meant to be a 2,000 word gore fic but has now surpassed 10,000 words and is up to the 6th part, and the gore has only just began lmaooo. I'll try to keep the gore parts limited to only a handful chapters, and will include warnings and summaries for those who dislike gore.


	7. Part Seven; Children Of The Apocalypse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hoo boy it's been a hot while. Forgive me, I have thirty seven thousand assignments due all in the next week 0-0. That is also why the writing in this chapter is a little shit...  
> There's a brief description of blood in this one, but nothing long or gory so it's easily skippable :)

PART SEVEN

Children Of The Apocalypse

Riker stayed crouched in the bathroom as the riot raged on outside. With no nooks or crannies to hide behind, he resorted to flattening himself against the wall near the door — it wasn’t the best hiding spot, but he hoped it would give him enough of a head-start on any potential attackers so that he had the upper hand. He’d tried contacting the Enterprise, but couldn’t find his combadge; Riker had his fingers crossed that it had just dropped off when he’d been shoved into the bathroom, and that he hadn’t been dumb and left it in his room. 

In his head he tried to form a mental map of the palace, but it was hard when he’d only seen about 10% of it. He knew his way to the banquet hall from here, at least, and was almost completely sure he could find his way back to their rooms from the hall. Riker wasn’t entirely sure what the appropriate course of action was. If Picard was with him, he’d probably lecture him on Starfleet’s wishes to avoid muddying the diplomatic waters with Ortrarvis. Riker had a sneaking suspicion that any starbase agreements might be suspended for quite a while following this ordeal. 

The shouting in the corridors had thinned by the time Riker felt safe enough to peel himself from the wall and take a tentative step into the open-plan structure of the bathroom. He immediately began scouring the room for his combadge, one eye on the ground and the other on the door, jumpy and on alert for any sudden intruders. He had no such luck in locating his badge, and had an awful, sneaking suspicion that he actually  _ had _ left it in his room. In the commotion of that morning, Riker felt that it was entirely likely he’d just forgotten to put it on. 

If he could find the others, his chance of survival would increase dramatically. It was a grim thought, but Riker knew there was no time for him to worry about possibilities. With no phaser and no way of contacting the ship nor the other members of the away team, he had to turn his complete attention to forming a plan. He knew it would be beyond stupid to approach the banquet hall again — common sense told him that would be where the rioters had flocked — yet he didn’t know where else to go. It wouldn’t be very helpful for him to get lost in the golden corridors, that was a given.

He wondered how easy it would be for him to scout out the situation. Being stuck in the bathroom was not ideal at all; there were no windows for him to peer out, on any of the walls. His only gauge for what was going on outside was the muffled sounds that issued through the door. Riker pressed his ear up against the crack between the door and wall, straining to pick up any indication of rioters in range. The hall was silent, but that didn’t mean it was clear. 

_ Let’s be real _ , he mused. It was highly likely that the rioters weren’t in the slightest bit organised enough to assign guards or patrol the corridors looking for wayward nobles. He didn’t even know if he would be seen as a threat, although the maid who’d hidden him certainly thought he would. The rioters were driven by pure emotion, that was obvious enough — and that fact alone increased his chances of survival quite significantly. 

The gold of the door gleamed almost mockingly as he held his breath and swung it open, muscles tensing in preparation to fight. The gilded walls seemed to wink at him as he steeled himself and peeked out of the bathroom.

The corridor was empty.

Riker’s footsteps were soft on the floor as he crept from the bathroom. Now that he was actually within the corridor, he found his recollection of the path to the banquet hall beginning to blur — the decorated golden walls and floor threw him off. It didn’t help that he had already been disorientated when he’d left the hall in the first place. A few times he felt himself begin to slip into despair, but snapped himself out of it before he drowned. It wouldn’t do to wallow in fear; he had to move quickly, while he still could.

After a good ten minutes of creeping through identical corridors, Riker began to feel annoyance simmer below the surface. He’d almost bumped into a few rogue Avul’ian rioters here and there — more than once he’d had to dive behind a corridor, heart thudding against his ribcage as he waited for the footsteps to pad away. He weaved in and out of golden rooms, each step coaxing the flames of frustration to lick a little higher. Where the fuck was the banquet hall? He could have sworn this was the direction he’d come…

Riker paused his search for the hall, brain racing. Evidently, he’d have to take another approach, although he sure as hell didn’t know what to do now. What he needed was some place sheltered to re-evaluate the situation and decide on another course of action. He could duck into one of the many rooms lining the halls, although he didn’t have a gauge for the risk level of entering an unknown room in the middle of a seemingly violent riot — it was times like these where he found himself wishing for Data’s analytical brain, or Picard’s common sense.

_ Common sense get stuffed _ , Riker mentally scoffed,  _ this  _ is _ a riot, after all.  _ So he picked the nearest room and yanked the door open, falling inside before he could change his mind and all but slamming the door shut behind him. He rested his forehead against the door, heart pounding, listening for anyone who may have heard. The corridor was silent. Slowly, Riker turned to survey the room. 

The walls were the same blinding gold as the rest of the castle (shocker), hand-painted with those colourful designs that adorned their bedrooms. In one corner, the heaped pile of pillows that the Avul’a called beds lay scattered across the shining floor. Puddles of wax from melted candles trailed the floor from the door to the back wall, some still flickering weakly, but most cold and silent. 

And, pressed against the wall adjacent to the door, two young children stood trembling and afraid, staring at Riker with tear-stained faces. 

  
  


❦

Deanna kept her hand linked tightly with Picard and Mann’s as they were jostled back out of the banquet hall. The crowd was a confusing wash of contrasting emotions; the overwhelming red of the rioter’s chest-swelling, aggressive energy mixing with the jagged green of the noble’s panicked frenzy. The only mind she could distinguish amongst the soup of emotions was Picard’s — cool and logical. He remained a level-headed wall as they were siphoned into the courtyard and made to cluster in the corner. 

Picard leaned over to whisper at Deanna and Mann. 

“Have either of you seen Riker?”

That was a good question — Deanna had seen him leave the room, face and mind perturbed, but hadn’t noticed him re-enter by the time the rioters had burst in. It was entirely possible that he’d managed to evade the initial storm. 

“No,” she hissed back. Mann shook her head.

“Oi!” someone nearby exclaimed, and a tall Avul’ian woman stepped up to them, eyeing their linked hands with a cruel smirk. Picard subtly drew in front of them, eyes hard. The woman reached out a hand and tapped at Picard’s combadge, plucking it from his chest.

“What’s this, hey?” she asked, turning it over in her hand. “Where’re you from, huh? You don’t look like us.”

“I am a human,” Picard tried, and was rewarded with a sharp slap to the cheek. The sound was lost in the clamour of the crowd. Picard’s expression was unreadable — Deanna knew his pride had taken a hit. Picard wasn’t a man who bowed to violent authority easily (they’d seen this time and time again with Q), and to do so always wounded him terribly. She couldn’t imagine the embarrassment he must have been feeling, degraded so forcefully in front of his crew. Deanna squeezed his hand reassuringly, watching, helpless, as the woman gathered both her and Mann’s badges also. She tightened her fist around them triumphantly. 

“Alright,  _ human _ . You’ll do yourself a favour and be quiet until it’s your turn.” The woman tapped a hand against her chin. “I wonder, do humans see the Light, too? Or are you plagued by perpetual darkness?” and her mouth twisted up into a cruel grin as she retreated into the churning bodies.

There was a scream near the front of the group, and Deanna caught a glimpse of dark blood blooming through the water of the fountain. It spilled over the steps and soaked into the clothes of the seated nobles, tinging the air with the sharp, heavy scent of death. Terror saturated the air, and in the confusion Deanna barely noticed Mann’s whispered words. 

“There’s a gap in the wall near the back,” she hissed. “We may be able to slip out.”

“Good eye,” Picard whispered back, nodding approvingly. “We’ll need a distraction.”

“There’s so much fear here, so much confusion,” Deanna cut in. “It won’t take anything big to allow us to slip away unnoticed.”

Another scream; more blood. There were people retching in the corner. Deanna did her best not to look at the water spilling over the fountain, as red as the sea following a shark attack. They shuffled forward as the line progressed, drawing closer to the gap. Deanna’s mind raced as they neared their escape, searching the crowd for any potential distractions.

Mann’s hand slipped from her grasp as the ensign stepped forward and deftly tripped one of the rioters, sending him tumbling forward. He hit the woman in front of him, spitting insults. It was enough — the tension broke, and fists began to fly. Deanna lost sight of Mann as Picard pulled her through the gap, leaving the flurry of shouting and fighting behind as they found themselves in the narrow passage between the rock of the mountain and the golden courtyard wall. Deanna dropped Picard’s hand, whirling around to train her eyes upon the gap in the wall.

“Counsellor, we must keep moving,” Picard insisted behind her. Deanna held up a hand, watching what she could see of the whirling bodies from this angle. Finally, Mann stumbled through the gap, eyes wide and chest heaving. A cut beaded red on her cheek, her shirt torn and skirt completely gone. Deanna reached out to her, drawing her away from the fight and into the cool recess of the small passage. Mann smiled reassuringly, panting. 

“I haven’t been in a fight like that since the academy,” she said. “Boy, I’m glad to be rid of that skirt.”

Picard was making a not-so-subtle attempt at keeping his eyes everywhere but Mann. Deanna made a mental note to insist on anyone wearing a skirt to also wear leggings beneath it in future missions. 

They followed the passage until it became too narrow to squeeze through. Then Picard cast his eyes upward, following the curve of the mountain as it disappeared into the fog above them. 

“I believe our only option left is to climb,” he said. 

❦

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhhhhh,,,,,,,, I'm so excited, my two favourite characters have finally been introduced! Who do you think the children are??
> 
> Next time we'll get a bit more from Worf :))  
> Thanks for reading, and I hope you're still enjoying 'Sharpen The Sickle'!


	8. Part Eight; Klingon v. Revolutionaries

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, finally another update! Sorry for the wait... Here's a little more Worf & Geordi to keep you amused, + a little more on those two kids Riker's just stumbled upon...  
> Hope you enjoy!

**PART EIGHT**

_ Klingon v. Revolutionaries _

It annoyed Worf how nonchalant Data looked. 

He knew perfectly well why Data wasn’t crying like 90% of the nobles wailing around them, or shaking in anger like Worf was; but it still pissed him off at how calmly the android was sitting, as if they were merely watching some sort of school demonstration. Meanwhile, Worf had at least ten Avul’a sitting astride him holding him down, and if he dared move even his pinky about ten more were poised ready to leap onto his back. Perhaps he should feel flattered that they thought him worthy of such attention.

It had been at least fifteen minutes since the first group had been herded out of the ballroom, giving Worf a perfect view of Shan’s mutilated body cooling where it was slumped on the ground. He could smell the heavy tang of blood hanging low in the air; while this sort of violence didn’t usually bother Worf too greatly, being submerged in the thick scent of blood for this long had begun to turn his stomach. His back ached where someone had a knee pressed right against his spine.

Not to mention that he was sure the captain had been in the group that had been taken – and, as far as he knew, most of the others too. The only ones he had visual confirmation of at the moment were Data, Sawyer and what looked like Mattar. No matter how many times Worf tried to focus on the crowd to find familiar faces, his eyes always settled back on Shan’s slack expression. If he was going to be completely honest, it was beginning to creep him out. Death had never irked Worf before, not like how it was now. Maybe he was slipping – or maybe his mind was still addled from the adrenaline the initial fight had pumped through him.

“Wo’rIv,” Data whispered to him, “choyaj’a’?”

Worf blinked in surprise at the angular Klingon words. He glanced up at the Avul’a – they hadn’t appeared to understand.

“choyaj’a’?”  _ Do you understand me? _

“HISlaH,” he replied, curiously, but Data shook his head.

“Do not speak,” he said, still in Klingon. “I have an internal translator which I can turn it off at will. Your universal translator will still be functioning.”

Worf nodded, his cheek dragging against the ground. That made sense; it wasn’t much, but it gave communication between them some integrity. It was a little strange to hear Data speak Klingon. It was such a harsh language, yet the android’s soft voice almost gave it a certain elegance. It felt strange, even a little unsettling. He hadn’t heard his name in its original Klingon in quite a while.

“I believe the captain and counsellor were in the group that were taken. Sawyer and Mattar are behind us, but I have not been able to discern the location of Riker, Geordi, Harley or Mann. If I could leave this room without the rioters knowing, I may be able to contact the  _ Enterprise _ .” He paused, levelling his yellow eyes with Worf’s own. “I will require a significant distraction.”

Worf knew what Data was hinting at. He nodded slightly again, wincing as someone pressed their boot against his skull.

“What are you talking about?” an Avul’ growled. “Shut up!”

Worf smiled at Data, who looked wholly unconcerned.

“yIqet!” he hissed, readying himself to fling those pinning him down to the ground.  _ Run! _

❦

Being blind was deafening. 

Geordi was used to it, of course, but not in situations like this — not in situations where his ears relayed the sound of a man dying brutally, where his nose relayed the tang of blood and sweat, where he could feel an almost palpable fear suspended in the air around him. Typically, he liked to imagine his blindness as a cocoon of sorts that descended around him whenever he took off his visor. As childlike as it felt sometimes, to imagine a warm and unbreakable box around him, it did lend him some comfort. He’d trained himself to feel his blindness as a safe respite from daily life, where the chronic pain of his visor died to only a dull, easily ignorable ache, and where he didn’t have to uphold expectations — he could just be himself.

Geordi couldn’t imagine that cocoon here, even if he wanted to. He didn’t know if it was even wise to attempt to imagine his safe box in this situation. With his vision taken away from him, he’d much rather be completely alert and on edge than comfortable and safe. He couldn’t help flinching at every sound close by, or every draught that kissed his skin when someone moved past him. All he could do was keep his head down and try to quell his racing heart and mind long enough to think of a course of action. 

_ It sure would be helpful to know where the others are _ , Geordi thought with a spike of grim humour. Unfortunately, losing his visor robbed him of his ability to seek out the rest of the away team without calling unnecessary attention to himself. All he could do for now was stay put and hope they’d find him — his unfamiliar surroundings instantly crushed any hope of finding his way out. He hated this loss of control, it made him feel weak and useless. Geordi had always forced himself to separate his blindness from a disability in his mind (he refused to accept the notion that it made him any less worthy of his active role in society — visor or no visor — regardless of the general mindset of society), yet finding himself alone and visionless in a confusing and dangerous situation threatened to override that. 

Geordi was surprised when he realised that he was pissed off — not with the rioters, no, but with his own resolve buckling. A small voice in the back of his head that sounded like Data whispered for him to go easier on himself, but his frayed nerves protested firmly. He could feel himself starting to get worked up; and when he heard what sounded like someone very familiar roaring in anger somewhere to his left, Geordi let it overcome him in a giddy mix of excitement and anxiety. He was certain it was Worf he was hearing, yelling over the sudden clamour from the rioters. He could feel them flocking to the back of the room as their legs brushed against him. Geordi knew this may be his only chance to locate his friends, though in his fragile state the thought of drawing attention to himself terrified him. 

He had to do it. Geordi steeled himself, building courage, then used all his strength to rocket to his feet, almost tipping over in the process.

“WORF!” he hollered, in the general direction of the commotion. “WORF! OVER HERE!”

He continued to yell until his throat ran ragged, and almost screamed when someone grasped his arm suddenly, heart leaping from his chest. 

“Commander!” exclaimed the voice of a very familiar Klingon, and Geordi felt his heart leap once again; this time, from relief. 

There was a muffled grunt as Worf’s hand was suddenly jerked away, happy jeers and caterwauls ringing out around them. Geordi crouched back down, dipping his head and readying himself for some sort of physical reprimand. None came. 

“Worf?” he hissed, head still down and hoping the Klingon was still close by. “What’s going on? They smashed my visor.”

“Bastards!” Worf hissed back, somewhere close by on his left. “They’ve pinned me down. Can’t… move!” There was a gruff yell from the Klingon, the crowd of rioters ooh-ing and aah-ing around them. Geordi kept his head dipped toward the ground, mind racing. 

“I think they’re enjoying it, sir,” Worf grunted, sounding out of breath. “They… do not appear to be scared of my strength.”

“Do you know where the others are?” Geordi asked.

There was a pause, as if Worf was considering how to respond.

“Maybe,” he said. Geordi wondered if this meant some might have been able to escape unseen. 

“Can… you tell me where Data is?”

“I would,” Worf said, after another pause, “but I cannot.”

Geordi thought he understood. He nodded, hoping Worf could see him, trying to block out the chaos around them and think rationally. 

“There’s no use fighting for now,” he said finally. “We better conserve our strength.”

“Shut up!” barked someone on the other side of him, and Geordi promptly fell silent.

❦

The audible sobs of the little boy shook Riker out of his surprise. He slowly turned out his hands, trying to adopt a reassuring expression.

“Hey, hey, it’s alright! I’m not going to hurt you,” he soothed, smiling. The boy was about the size of a human toddler, but taking into account typical Avul’ian height Riker couldn’t be sure what age he was exactly — only that he looked very, very scared. He was hiding behind the legs of a girl, a little taller than waist-height, who’d positioned herself in front of the boy protectively as he clutched her arm. Despite her tear-stained cheeks, she wore a look of stubborn defiance.

“You look funny,” she said.

Riker resisted the urge to chuckle. 

“I’m not one of your species,” he explained gently. “I’m something called a ‘human’ — I’m just visiting Ortrarvis with my friends.”

“Who was yelling?” she asked, her adult-like defiance breaking a little as a torrent of questions hovered on her voice. “Who came into my room before? What’s happening?”

Riker paused, thinking about how he should phrase it. He didn’t know how old she was, or how integrated with the world she was — it was obvious both of them were the children of nobles, and Riker had no way of gauging what the upper class did and didn’t teach their children on this planet. He nodded slowly, gathering his words. 

“I can’t be sure, but I think they’re a group of people who are very angry with… some of the people in the palace. They took me by surprise too,” he explained. “Have you been hiding? Are there any more of you?”

“We hid under th’ bed when th’ yellin’ started,” the boy gasped through sobs. The girl shot him an angry look.

“Shhh, Shon!” She turned her eyes back to Riker. “We don’t know if he can be trusted.”

It was such a dramatic line, delivered with that all-too-familiar tone of childlike confidence. Riker couldn’t help himself; he broke out into a warm grin. 

“Well, I don’t know if I’ll be able to change your mind, but I can tell you that I’m not going to hurt you. In fact, I’d rather like to help you out. Does that sound alright?”

With another sob, the little boy detached himself from the girl’s arm and ran toward Riker, firmly attaching himself to his legs. He buried his face just above Riker’s knees, arms wrapping around his legs. Riker caught himself on the door, narrowly avoiding tipping backwards.

“Whoa, hey!” he chuckled. 

“Shon!” the girl hissed again. “Get back here!”

Riker gently untangled the kid’s arms from his legs and crouched, bringing himself to the boy’s level. He took in his tear-stained face, hands on his shoulders.

“Shon, huh? That’s a very cool name. How old are you, Shon?”

“F-five,” Shon replied.

“Five!” Riker gasped, feigning surprise (to be fair, he was a little surprised — Shon was only the height of a human two-year-old, after all). “No way! That’s so old!”

Shon giggled through his tears. 

“Shon!” the girl hissed again, with less vigour. She looked uncertain. Riker lent her a small smile.

“It’s alright, I’m not going to hurt him.”

“Hands off my brother!” she spat. 

Riker nodded, and lifted his hands up. Shon immediately wrapped his arms around Riker, burying his tiny head in his chest. 

“Hands off!” the girl tried again, but she was faltering.

“Believe me, I would if I could,” Riker said calmly. “What about you? How old are you? What’s your name?”

The girl’s uncertainty lifted as she drew herself up proudly. “I am the Crown Princess Ingaie, first heir to the throne. I am 11 years old.”

“Princess…?” Riker’s eyes widened in realisation. “You’re Emperor Shan’s children.”

Well, shit. Riker sighed and tried to retain his reassuring attitude, Shon’s arms tight around his chest. This would make things a little bit harder.

❦  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright so because I'm a big languages nerd I've started teaching myself Klingon (I know, I know, geek alert... lmao), and couldn't help throw a few simple words here and there. Klingon is so fun to learn, it's a little polysynthetic and the grammar is so fun to try and work out! I'm definitely going to try and chuck in a little more here and then, although i'm still very much a beginner and probably won't put anything too complicated aha. 
> 
> Also I realise that by my logic Data could just speak Standard and it would have the same effect but hey
> 
> Thanks for sticking with this work thus far, and I hope you enjoyed this part! See you next time :)


	9. Part Nine; Mountainside Banter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of clarification before you read -- the timeline is a little confusing; Picard & Riker's sections both occur an hour or so before midday, while Data's section occurs a few hours before theirs. I realised it wasn't very clear only after finishing the chapter and couldn't be arsed to go back and edit.   
> Sorry for the long wait!

PART NINE

Mountainside Banter

It was midday by the time they broke the thick fog. The mountain had flattened out, and Picard assumed they were somewhere near the top. He wasn’t comfortable with being this far away from the rest of his crew, but Mann had pointed out that it might be better for them to find their way out of the fog before stopping, and he’d agreed with her. He was glad they’d pushed on — the sun was now visible, the warmth of its rays chasing away the biting cold of the swirling cloud they’d been climbing through for hours. 

The tranquility here was almost discordant against the chaos they’d emerged from a few hours ago. The sun was warm and inviting, the tufts of grass dotted here and there swayed gently, and, high up in the honey-tinted sky, something that resembled a sparrowhawk drifted serenely on open wings. The mountain breathed with the hum of the breeze, life ebbing through its verdant veins with the beat of the planet’s heart. 

The day’s glory was lost on Picard as he surveyed the cloud gyrating metres below them, half expecting their missing crew members to march defiantly from its depths, combadges in hand and ready to beam up. He was already exhausted — fatigue seemed to be woven into the very fabric of his being, weighing down his limbs and threatening to drag his eyelids shut — but he fought it, knowing full well that this was no time for rest. 

“Alright,” Mann was saying behind him, “let’s try to map out what we know. Commander Riker left the banquet hall before we were swarmed, right? So he potentially wasn’t caught. Everyone else was taken to the ballroom, and we can fairly safely assume no one was able to slip free. Um… I didn’t see anyone we knew in the group that was taken to the courtyard, did you?”

“No,” Deanna chimed in, “although I was having a hard time paying attention — the fear in that group was overwhelming.”

“Right. So that leaves everyone but Commander Riker in the ballroom at the time we left. If we can somehow map out the palace, we might be able to sneak back in—”

“It’s no use,” Picard spoke up, turning around to face the two. Mann looked up from where she was scratching in the dirt with a stick, frowning. Picard sighed. “It’s been a couple of hours since we left. Anything could have happened since then — the other groups may have already been taken out to the courtyard by this point.”

“We need to think logically.” He made his way over, crouching next to them. “As much as I dislike inaction, perhaps it’s the best option. The  _ Enterprise _ is expecting my report by the end of the day. When they don’t receive it, they will try to contact us. Either they will be able to make contact with someone, and will learn what’s happened, or they won’t be able to make contact and will assume the worst.”

“Either way, they’ll know something has happened,” Mann finished. “Even without our combadges, it will be easy for them to distinguish our signatures from the Avul’a. They can beam us up, or beam someone down to scout out the situation first.”

“Precisely,” Picard nodded, but his heart still thumped uncomfortably when he glanced back down the mountain into that white wall of mist. How could he articulate the horrid fear writhing in his throat to these two people who had placed so much trust in him? The world around him had grown somewhat muted, a subtle desaturation that tinged the horizon and made the grass grey. His mind kept sliding back to one thought — he was worried about Riker. The look on the man’s face as he’d hurried from the room was one that had struck Picard in the chest, hard. He’d been concerned about the commander already, and the uncertainty surrounding the sudden revolution had only elevated that. 

Had Riker managed to escape that initial ‘invasion’? Picard hoped so. He hoped, dearly, that Riker had come to the same conclusion and had found a hiding place to wait at until the  _ Enterprise _ recognised that they were in trouble. Picard resisted the urge to sigh, muscles tense as he crouched on the sunny mountainside, staring into the fog. 

❦

“Right, this is the plan,” Riker said, crouching in front of the two children. He’d sat them on the piles of pillows they called beds so he could maintain eye contact a little easier — although that was hard when Shon insisted on holding his hand all the time (not that Riker minded all that much). He wished he had some way of telling them time; his guess was that it had been maybe two or three hours since the initial invasion, which would place them around midday. He’d been pacing the room while the children watched silently for half an hour now, contemplating the best course of action. Ingaie had fallen into a sullen silence quickly, and Shon had reluctantly retired to sitting on the ‘bed’ when he’d realised that holding Riker’s hand was quite an ordeal due to their height difference.

“You guys know your way around the palace, right? My combadge—”

“What’s a combadge?” interrupted Shon curiously.

“Well,” Riker started, mind racing to ‘dumb it down’ to kid’s level, “it’s a little device that lets me communicate with my friends! And if I can get it, I might be able to ask them for help. But the problem is, it’s all the way in my own bedroom, and I’m so bad at directions that I don’t know how to get there!”

Shon giggled, squeezing Riker’s fingers. Ingaie’s stubborn expression didn’t falter.

“Now, I thought that if you two would help me find my way to my room, we might be able to get out of here. The problem is, it’s very dangerous out there. I’m not sure if I like the idea of taking you kids out of this room.”

“Why should we help you?” Ingaie broke her silence for the first time in twenty minutes, distrustful feline eyes darting over Riker’s face. 

Riker paused. Ingaie’s defiance was completely understandable, but was still an obstacle that would prevent them from reaching an ultimately positive outcome. Riker didn’t know a great deal about gaining the trust of a kid, but he did know that trust existed as a spectrum; there was no off/on switch, and if he was going to earn Ingaie’s trust he had to build it up gradually. Unfortunately, he didn’t feel at all comfortable with leaving the room until he  _ had _ earned Ingaie’s trust. He didn’t know much about the relationship between Ingaie and Shon but he did know how influential an older kid could be on a younger one. He didn’t want Ingaie to convince Shon to do something stupid like run off, purely because she didn’t trust Riker.

“I’ve got a friend called Jean-Luc Picard,” he started, trying to meet her gaze with an open and welcoming expression. “Do you have a best friend in the whole world, someone you trust with all your heart?”

After a sullen moment of silence, Ingaie nodded minutely.

“Well, Jean-Luc is my best friend, and I trust him unconditionally. And he just so happens to be the captain of the starship that I work on, which means he’s very clever and good at making decisions. If I can contact Jean-Luc, I trust him to know the right way to handle this situation. If I can contact Jean-Luc and my ship, I think we’ll probably be able to get to somewhere safer than this.” 

Ingaie nodded again, but didn’t say anything. It was strange, Riker didn’t feel the same sense of urgency that had crept upon him during those long minutes cowering in the bathroom. Perhaps it was the fact that the noise of the riot had dulled — Riker wasn’t even sure the group was still in the palace, but he wasn’t willing to take any risks — or perhaps it was the happy golden walls and calming piles of pillows that most certainly did not fit with the danger of the situation. Whatever it was, Riker had to keep reminding himself that this room, with its unlockable door, was not as safe as he would like (although it would have to do for now). What he really needed was a phaser, although he felt equally as opposed to having to use it in front of the kids. He didn’t know how well he could explain the ‘stun’ function, and what with everything they had witnessed in the past few hours he didn’t think it would be a good idea to be taking down people in front of them. He was supposed to be gaining their trust, not painting himself as violent.

Shon tugged on his hand. “Wiiiiiiill, I’m hungry!”

Riker sighed, letting the tiny kid play with his fingers. “You might have to wait a little longer, champ, I don’t think it’s quite safe enough to leave here yet.”

As much as he wanted to find his combadge as soon as possible, Riker knew that it was a bad idea to leave a distrustful Ingaie in a room alone (the danger of someone finding them alone immediately invalidated any reasoning behind venturing out alone), and he knew it was an even worse idea to try and take them with him. Whether he liked it or not, he was stuck here for now with a stubborn young girl and her hungry little brother — and, whether it was a smart idea or not, Riker had already labelled himself their caretaker and was determined to get them through this unharmed.

❦

As well as Data had memorised what sections of the palace he had been in, and as much as he tried to keep a low profile, being inconspicuous when your skin and attire directly contrasted the golden walls was an undoubtedly difficult task. Worf’s aggressive distraction had been more than suitable for him to slip out of the ballroom unnoticed, but navigating the corridors was proving difficult; there seemed to be Avul’ian revolutionaries at every turn. 

He’d noticed his missing combadge soon after they’d been herded into the ballroom — he’d surmised that it must have been knocked off in the struggle that had seen both him and Worf overwhelmed. Regardless of how he’d lost it, he was now without communications. He’d been running over options in his head as he sat in the ballroom. Taking Worf’s communicator would be tricky, given the excessive number of people holding him down. Trying to make his way over where Mattar and Sawyer were sitting would ultimately result in being apprehended, which in turn would significantly reduce his chances of escaping the ballroom. In the end, Data had settled on a course of action based entirely on speculation.

He wasn’t a stranger to acting on speculation, but he had to admit that this was one of his more rocky plans. Usually he had enough evidence to justify his actions quite well, yet this time he was acting off of a split-second observation that Data couldn’t even verify. He’d noticed that Commander Riker had not been wearing his combadge when he had hurriedly left the banquet hall only an hour and a half ago, and had calculated the likelihood of it being in his room — taking into consideration the possibility that a) it may have been concealed/positioned in such a way so that Data did not notice it or b) it may have been dropped on the way to the banquet hall, the odds were a lot lower than he would have liked; but it was the only feasible option at this point, so Data now found himself sneaking through the halls toward their rooms.

He’d heard Geordi shout, just before he’d slipped out of the room. The sound had carried over the clamour of the crowd, and that strange yet familiar pulse through his neural net had flooded through him in a similar way to how a human might describe relief. The strength of the pulse had momentarily caused him to falter, but only for a split second. Now, recalling the moment, a similar pulse — albeit weaker — ran through his mind. Once again it caused him to falter, if only for a second, and yet it was a second too long.

“Someone’s there!” yelled a gruff voice in front of him, then a string of the untranslatable secondary language. Data turned around, preparing himself to fight; being an android, he was strong enough to take on even one of the women who towered above him. He was met with a sight that made him dial back his ‘fight’ response and freeze in place. 

The male Avul’a who’d spotted him had something trained upon him that looked like a cross between a small blunderbuss and a phaser — something that was undoubtedly designed to do harm, android or not.

❦

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unfortunately I'm not entirely sure when the next part will be out, as I'm started term again soon. I may not get a chance to write for a while (however, on the other hand, I may use this fic as a way to procrastinate my assignments...)
> 
> We'll be getting some more Geordi next time, and hopefully some more gore (although it'll be from the perspective of a blind person, which will definitely be interesting to write aha). See you there!


	10. Part Ten; The Blind Man's Ultimatum

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops, it's been a full two months since I last posted... 0_0. Here's an entire chapter of Geordi to make up for the wait! OH! and I changed my username!!  
> GORE WARNING FOR THE FIRST THIRD OR SO; there will be a run-down of the chapter in the end note if you want to skip over that!  
> Here's a quick overview of where we left off, to jog your memories:  
> \- Riker is still stuck in a room with the two young heirs to the throne (Shon, 5, and Ingaie, 11). He wants to find his combadge, but doesn't want to put the kids in danger by leaving the relative safety of the room they're in.  
> \- Picard, Troi & Ensign Mann have climbed higher up the mountain the palace is built into, and have lost sight of the palace through the fog. They're sitting on the mountaintop trying to work out a course of action, and Picard thinks the best plan is to wait until the end of the day, when the Enterprise will realise his daily report is missing and will try to contact them, working out what happened one way or another.  
> \- Data has been captured, after trying to escape the ballroom to contact the Enterprise.  
> \- Worf, Geordi, and two security officers are still in the ballroom. Worf and Geordi are up the front (Worf is being held down), while the other two are somewhere up the back. The other security officer, Harley, is unaccounted for.

**PART TEN**

_ The Blind Man’s Ultimatum _

Perhaps it was the removal of his way to visually gauge the mood in the room, or perhaps it was just the fact that they had been sitting there for seemingly hours with no end in sight, but Geordi somehow found himself beginning to relax a bit. He found himself drawing connections to a hazy memory way back from his early childhood, crouching in their family home as they prepared for a cyclone to hit. The monster — which had been dubbed ‘Perseus’ — had blown in from the Indian Ocean. The climbing climate had been breeding cyclones with more and more intensity, and Perseus had generated a buzz that Somalia hadn’t experienced since Pawan. It got within 500 metres of the coast, before it dissipated quickly without ever making landfall. 

He’d crouched in the house with his family throughout that stressful day when the cyclone had edged closer and closer, eventually removing his visor after the ache became too much to bear. All he could remember from the ordeal was sitting in absolute blindness for so long that the initial rush of stress and terror ebbed and left him with a strange sort of bored tranquility; similar to what he was feeling now. He knew that a vibrant terror still simmered in the room, and that the danger he faced was significant; yet he couldn’t help but feel a pressing boredom in sitting for so long. 

Geordi had heard it said a million times that the removal of one sense will heighten the others. He’d become hyper-aware of the conscious world around him; the usually ambient background whirr of what he assumed was some sort of heating system had now grown oppressive and all-encompassing; the numbness creeping into his legs and butt from sitting against the hard floor for hours; the occasional dull throb of pain where his visor once sat; and, above all else, the nose-wrinkling scent of sweat and blood. Were those shouts, over the buzz of the heating system? Could he hear a scuffle, or was it just his jumpy imagination?

Worf made a slight exclamation beside him — the first sound he’d uttered in over an hour. Geordi tentatively turned his head toward the sound, hoping the movement wouldn’t spark threats from the rebels around them. That single movement had what he could only describe as a ‘clearing’ effect on his mind. The sound of the heating system became less oppressive, and he lost interest in the creeping numbness in his legs. The sounds of an argument cut through the dim; it wasn’t just his imagination. Geordi felt adrenaline begin to mount, chasing away his strange boredom.

“What’s going on?” he hissed, but Worf didn’t answer him. “Worf? What’s happening?”

And now frustration was biting at his mind. He could hear yelling, but couldn’t discern the words (he recognised the aggressive sounds of Avul’ian and the more recognisable vowels of English, but his thoughts were picking up speed and didn’t have time to process what was being said — it just sounded like a mad jumble of shouting that ripped at his ears). The wailing of nobles started back up again. Someone fell heavily somewhere in front of him — Geordi flinched back. It took him a second to realise that the creeping warmth sliding past his toes and up his legs smelled of blood.

And now he was cringing backwards, half repulsed and half terrified of getting crushed by frantic feet (or getting killed himself, but he tried not to think about that). The cloying scent of blood, the sharp scent of sweat. Screams, shouts, accusations. Where was Worf? 

“Worf!” he growled again, wishing desperately for his sight. He lowered his head and slowly crawled, on his hands and knees across the ground to where he’d last heard Worf. His fingers pushed through a slick puddle. He could feel it soaking into his pants. Nothing. There was a mangled scream above him, and he impulsively propelled himself backwards across the floor, rational thought descending into chaotic static until his back hit a wall and he held his head in shaking, blood-soaked hands. 

_ Get a hold of yourself _ , he screamed in his mind, but he could barely hear it over the static. 

His mind dipped, and for a frightening moment he became submerged in some cold void where all his faculties surrendered themselves to a fear so intense he just felt numb. The world around him grew deathly silent. The floor fell out beneath him. He couldn’t even think — he was lost.

_ Geordi _ , said something which sounded like Data, and with a gasp Geordi pulled himself out of the void. 

“Data?” he asked — nothing.

Geordi took a shaking breath, trying to distance his mind from the now full-fledged fight before him. Rational thought — if he couldn’t see Worf, he’d find him some other way. His voice, his smell, anything at all; because if he didn’t find him, he’d die here on the floor. Then again... it might be better for him to stay against the wall, where Worf could come to him. His arms still felt slick with blood, and his fingers had begun sticking together where it had started to dry. If he could avoid having to crawl through gore again, he’d be more than happy. 

It was hard to discern where the bulk of the crowd lay. His depth of sound was shaky (he couldn’t tell whether it was from nerves or something else), but he guessed he was a safe enough distance from the fight. And yet, if the fight did progress to somewhere closer to him, Geordi would much prefer to have located Worf. Which way would be quicker? Blindly picking his way through the crowd until he ran into the Klingon, or waiting by the wall and hoping the Klingon would find him?

The decision was made for him — someone grabbed his arm, suddenly, and Geordi cried out, struggling away. 

“Calm down, it’s me,” Worf grunted, and the hand gripping his arm dropped. Geordi groped in his direction, worried that he’d loose him again. After a second, a rough hand took his wrist gently and guided it to what Geordi assumed was Worf’s arm. Geordi clutched it desperately — he was determined to stick by the Klingon from here on out.

“You’re hurt,” said Worf. Geordi shook his head, but couldn’t find the words to explain. 

“Data? Where’s Data?” he asked, recalling the voice which had pulled him through his sickening panic only moments before. Worf’s arm shifted under his grip.

“This is our chance to escape,” Worf hissed. 

“Data?” Geordi repeated.

“Gone. We need to find a door, now.”

Geordi stumbled after Worf for a moment, practically being dragged. Worf didn’t lead him well — he changed direction suddenly, pulled him along too roughly and far too fast for Geordi to properly find his footing. At least they were following the wall; the sounds of fighting sounded closer than ever, and Geordi just hoped his shoes weren’t kicking through the unthinkable. His adrenaline was spiking again; he dug in his heels and used what little strength he had left to halt their mad rush through the crowd. 

“What do you mean, ‘gone’?! Where are we going? What’s happening?” his questions spilled out in a rush. 

“I’ll explain once we’re out of here,” Worf growled, sounding frustrated. God; he had forgotten how hard it was to read Worf without seeing his expression. The Klingon was usually an open book — his face betrayed his slightest emotion (mostly anger, if Geordi was going to be brutally honest) — but Geordi hadn’t quite realised how little variation was present in his voice. His own frustration was climbing to meet his adrenaline levels.

“ _ Where is Data _ ?” Geordi hissed. “I’m not leaving until I know.”

“We’re not talking about this now—”

“ _ Yes _ , we are. Is he hurt?”

Worf snarled wordlessly. The sound ran through the same vein as the clamour of the fight, but somehow it seemed a lot more dangerous. Geordi stood his ground.

“Don’t treat me like a fucking child, just because I can’t see. He’s dead, isn’t he?” Geordi registered the weight of his words, but somehow didn’t feel it. The word ‘dead’ seemed light in his mouth. It floated to the roof as he said it, like it was filled with helium, and hung above the battle. Dead… but an android couldn’t  _ die _ , could it, because it was never alive to begin with. That was just a fact; Data wasn’t flesh and blood. He could shut down; he could become damaged beyond repair; but he couldn’t  _ die. _ That didn’t sit quite right with Geordi — he couldn’t convince himself of that. Data wasn’t flesh and blood, but his mind sang like any human’s. Death was the only word that could describe the end of his life, even if he hadn’t ‘properly’ lived.

Maybe the word ‘death’ felt light because he didn’t fully believe it. Geordi felt sure he’d know if Data was dead. He didn’t know how — a subtle feeling, perhaps, or some sudden vacancy in his mind, like a bond had been broken; a bond so ancient that his mind had grown over it, absorbed it into itself so that it ran just below the surface of his awareness, unable to he recognised until it was gone and the hole it left behind seemed to gape and itch. What would happen if Data died? To be frank, Geordi couldn’t quite remember what it was like before Data, and couldn’t really picture what it might be like afterwards. Not that remembering what it was like before Data would help him picture a vacant future at all — simply because before Data he hadn’t  _ known _ Data. He hadn’t been touched by his presence; he had no way of even conceiving what being around Data would be like. Putting it shortly, Geordi had absolutely no way of visualising what it might be like without Data, because all he had ever known was Before Data and During Data; he hadn’t tasted loss, not properly, anyway. Not long-term.

Geordi was ripped from his gut-churning contemplation by Worf hoisting him up and slinging him over his shoulder. He was too surprised to fight, at first. Then he wriggled, but the cloying scent of blood and sweat and fighting drank from the deep well of energy that had pooled in his limbs. He wriggled, then slumped, then let Worf carry him away from the fight and tried not to cry. 

Worf put him down after what felt like an age, and for the first time Geordi realised how quiet it all seemed. After the craze of the battle this place seemed as still as death (not that Geordi really wanted to think about death, at this moment). The drying blood on his forearms made his skin feel tight. Worf’s hands were rough as they searched him.

“You’re hurt,” he said, “where?” 

Geordi found a grim humour in the Klingon’s inability to find words (just like him, just like him). He shook his head and pushed Worf’s arms away, gently. 

“It’s someone else’s,” he said, softly. “Where are we?”

“First empty room I found.”

“Is there somewhere I could possibly sit down?” Geordi asked. After a moment, Worf took his arm and led him forward until his knees bumped against something. Geordi leant down and ran his hands across it — it felt like a table, low to the ground and bare. He sat, and after a moment he felt Worf sit beside him.

“Data isn’t dead,” Worf said, after a moment of silence. 

“I know,” Geordi replied.

“He left, just before I found you, to try to comm the  _ Enterprise _ .”

“Maybe we’ll stumble into him, huh?” Geordi turned his face down to his lap, where his arms rested. He could feel them trembling. “I should probably try to clean myself up before that happens.”

More silence.

"What happened, anyway? Why'd they all start fighting?"

"I'm not sure," Worf replied. "I think there was some argument between the slaves -- _former_ slaves -- and all the others."

“I’m going to barricade the door,” he announced. Geordi wondered if that was a Klingon’s way of fidgeting, doing stuff so that they didn’t have to sit still. He listened to furniture scrape the ground for a little, feeling like he was floating up there with his helium-filled ‘death’, with the  _ Enterprise _ circling high up in the sky. Floating around with what he was quickly realising was more than just friendship for Data. Floating around with the closeness, the safety, the security and joy the android incited within him.

“What’s going to happen now?” Geordi asked, so he didn’t have to think about it, but he didn’t get an answer.

A million years away, in some dark nook under the palace, Data hung stoically from the ropes that bound him to the low, rocky roof. A grotty Avul’a grinned manically at him from his seat only a metre away, and the cold, hard barrel of that peculiar looking weapon was jammed against the base of his skull.

“We’ve captured ourselves a fly,” crooned the Avul’a before him, and he threw his head back and laughed in the way that only mad men laugh in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading, and for sticking with this fic for this long! This is my longest fic to date, and I'm so happy people have been enjoying it haha.
> 
> An overview of the chapter for those who skipped through the gore:  
> \- Geordi and Worf have been sitting for so long that Geordi, amazingly, has started becoming bored. He likens it to the boredom he felt when he was a child and his family had to shelter in their house due to the threat of a cyclone for the whole day; that boredom you get even though your situation is dangerous.  
> \- Geordi begins to hear what sounds like a scuffle, and then Worf seems to notice something. Despite Geordi asking what's happening, he gets no answer. Yelling starts.  
> \- A full fight breaks out, and Geordi can't find Worf. Someone is killed in front of him, but Geordi only realises when he feels blood on his arms and legs. He scrambles to the back wall and starts to panic.  
> \- He hears Data speaking his name, and it draws him out of the blind panic. He stumbles into Worf, and they argue because Geordi wants to know where Data is, thinking he's in the room, and contemplates on what would happen if it turns out Data is dead (and this is where he begins to realise the extent of his feelings, although this hasn't been explored very far as of yet!).  
> \- Worf picks Geordi up, because he refuses to leave until he knows where Data is, and carries him out of the room. He finds an empty room and tells Geordi what happened to Data, before barricading the door.  
> \- We then get a paragraph or so describing Data tied up as a prisoner of a couple of Avul'ian rioters.
> 
> Thanks again for the support!! :))


	11. Part Eleven; Musings On Mortality

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hooray I'm back! I'm literally about to go into my final exam before i graduate school (it's onto uni next year hhhh),,,, this chapter helped me procrastinate revising for that aha.  
> CW: Slight android gore about 3 paragraphs in; mentions of torture and death in the first half. A run-down of the chapter will be available in the end notes.
> 
> I had a question about what period in time this is set in, in relation to Data's development throughout the series, and to be honest the answer is 'i don't know'. I have it in my mind that this is set before 'Brothers', i.e. before the emotion chip was even a thing (this is just so i can explore the idea of data developing a form of emotion without them being programmed), but when I conceptualised this fic I did want it to be timeless so it could technically be slotted anywhere into canon, or exist outside of canon altogether (which is why I tend to avoid references to specific canon events). I'm aware that approaching the timeline like this makes the characters just a little bit more ooc when you take into consideration their development between the beginning and end of TNG, but hopefully that doesn't impact too much on the reading experience! In the end this is an unedited, first-draft fic that I'm essentially making up as I go, so don't expect it to make complete sense timeline-wise lmao :)

PART ELEVEN

Musings On Mortality

Data was thinking about Geordi.

This, in itself, wasn’t anything unique; a good amount of his spare time was reserved to thinking about Geordi (the man fascinated him, after all). His mannerisms, his subtleties, the little things that set him apart from everyone else — the way he seemed to make friends with everyone, or the way he could find positives in any situation, or the way he didn’t  _ ignore _ the fact that Data was an android, so much as acknowledge and embrace it. Data liked that. There were some people who tried to pretend Data was just a human being, and for a while there Data had assumed that that’s what they needed to do in order to treat him with respect; to pretend he was exactly like everyone else. Geordi had shown him that he didn’t need people to pretend he was human to accept him; that they could recognise the unique aspects that came with being an android and celebrate them, welcome them. 

He was thinking about Geordi, but not the ways that the man (for lack of a better word) ‘astonished’ or surprised him; no, he was thinking about Geordi’s inevitable mortality. 

“Sho’an, we’ve been at this for an hour.” The woman sitting opposite Data inspected her nails. “One centimetre, five centimetres, the whole arm — it won’t make a difference.”

The ‘mad’ Avul’a had taken to pacing around the room, a constant trudge back and forth. Data’s eyes followed his path, his ankles and wrists still bound, body still hanging from the roof. Yellow fluid dripped rhythmically from the gashes that had been inflicted on his arms. Oddly, his two Avul’ian captors seemed unbothered by the exposed circuitry that blinked and flashed where they had cut deep into his left arm. 

Data was no stranger to thoughts of death — it would be hard not to think about it, surrounded by such delicate creatures. He himself was ‘mortal’ (eventually his circuitry would degrade; his programming would grow outdated; his model, obsolete; eventually, he’d shut down and wouldn’t ‘wake up’ again), but in calling these delicate creatures friends, he’d been forced to consider the mortality of others. He’d thought about Geordi’s death before, in amongst frantic missions or away teams gone wrong, or even when considering his own long lifespan, but it had never been so achingly drawn out as now.

“You should be screaming,” the mad one spat, pausing his trudge around the room to glare with glinting eyes at Data. He smiled cruelly, and resumed his pacing.

“I cannot f—” Data started. He was interrupted by the woman tutting loudly.

“No talking,” she hissed. “Or do we have to rip out your throat as well?”

Data opened his mouth to retaliate, then paused and promptly shut it again. The woman nodded. 

“You’re learning,” she grinned, and went back to inspecting her nails.

“You should be screaming,” the male hummed, “and yet you’re not.”

“A new upgrade,” the woman suggested. 

“Perhaps. But why haven’t they done that before? Out of all the  _ crap _ they stuff into themselves… you’d think pain would have been the first thing to go. Why now, of all times?” He giggled. “Do you think they anticipated the attack?”

“No,” the woman said, shaking her head. “They were too easily overcome, updates and all. He looks funny.”

“So you’ve said.” He halted his pacing near the door, peering out. “ _ Where _ is Shen?”

It was strange — although Data knew the overwhelming possibility that Geordi had either already died or become fatally wounded (he knew every little statistic, every margin of accuracy that told him Geordi could very well be dead), he was sure his friend was still alive. Logically, it was probably just his inability to comprehend Geordi’s death, which was strange in itself; he usually found death fairly easy to comprehend. Data found himself wondering if it was what Troi called ‘intuition’.  _ He’s not dead… I can  _ feel _ it. _ It was illogical, Geordi was more likely to be dead than he was to be alive. A nasty flood of…  _ something _ pulsed through Data’s positronic network, and he involuntarily tensed up. The women must have noticed his slight flinch. She peered at him curiously.

“He bleeds funny.” The woman leant forward and placed her finger to catch the yellow fluid as it dripped down Data’s arm. She sniffed it, rubbed it between her fingers. “Perhaps they replaced blood with a numbing agent?”

“It is a chem—”

“Shut up.” The woman moved her hand to lighty rest upon the blade they’d been slicing him with. Data shut up.

There was a commotion in the corridor, and an Avul’ian man came scurrying into the room. The woman rose to meet him. He eyed her, then turned to address the mad man.

“Infighting, sir. In the ballroom.”

“Infighting!” the woman exclaimed. “Of all the—”

The mad one grinned at her. “About time. Slaves?”

“Control the ballroom. The servants have secured other wings.” The new arrival watched the woman warily.

“Slaves…” The woman trailed off. “You... planned this?”

“Planned? No.” The man leant against the wall. “Suspected? Well… from the way you servants treat us, it was only a matter of time. Here we are, fighting for our freedom — we might as well go a step further than the aristocracy, hmm? Might as well kill off all prejudice.”

Data didn’t want to think about Geordi’s death, logical or not. 

The woman’s eyes widened as the man stepped toward her.

He found himself not wanting to think about Geordi at all, lest that sickening ache flood his brain again.

She reached for the yellow-stained blade, but had moved too far away. Her back hit the wall.

What had once been a comforting surge through his mechanical synapses had now turned into something he wished he’d never have to feel again. He felt… fragile.

The man’s hand deftly flicked to his side; he drew a dagger from beneath his trousers in a single swift movement. Data barely saw his hand move. The woman gasped and fell to her knees.

The man tugged his dagger from deep within her gut, side-stepped her weakly swiping arms, and gestured the newcomer out the door. He turned his gaze to Data, crazed and intense; almost disappointed — and then he moved out of the room, and was gone.

❦

“Ingaie, did your father ever mention which rooms my crew were staying in?” Riker asked. 

Ingaie shook her head.

“We had an open section on the end of the corridor — like a little balcony, where the wall was gone.”

“There’s heaps of those,” Ingaie shrugged.

“This one faced the marketplace.”

“All of them do.”

Riker sighed. Whether on purpose or not, Ingaie wasn’t going to make it easy for him. He glanced over to where Shon was napping, curled up amongst the cushions piled in the corner. The kid seemed so impossibly small, so frighteningly fragile; Riker felt a nasty pang of despair in his chest. How could he hope to keep these kids safe through all of this? He didn’t even really know what was happening — or if he himself would be rescued. 

“I’m hungry,” Ingaie grumbled. 

Shit — there was that, too. Riker supposed it must be after midday, by this point. He didn’t know if he wanted to risk finding food right at the moment; although he supposed it was a tossup between venturing out now, in a haze of uncertainty, or trying to gather more information yet having to travel with two hungry children. 

“The kitchens are right near here,” Ingaie said. “Why can’t we go?”

“It might be too dangerous for you,” Riker said. “Where are the kitchens?”

“They’re just down the corridor,” Ingaie shrugged. “Me ‘n Shon sneak there at night.”

“Which way down the corridor?”

Ingaie pointed. Riker nodded, and glanced back to Shon. “Alright — I’m going to go and try to get you guys something to eat, okay? You need to stay here and look after your brother.”

“No way!” Ingaie burst out. “I’m coming, too!”

“Shhhhh! Keep your voice down. Look, it’s too dangerous for you to come with me. I’ll be back in a few minutes.” Riker knelt beside her, softening his tone. “We can’t leave Shon alone here, anyway. I need someone brave to look after him while I’m gone, alright?”

Ingaie looked at the ground sulkily. “Alright.”

Riker smiled at her. “Good. I’ll be back soon; give me ten or fifteen.”

He was back within five minutes, trying his best not to scowl at Ingaie’s smirk.

“I can’t find it.”

“Too bad,” Ingaie said. “You said yourself, I’m not allowed to leave. Plus I’m so, so hungry. I think Shon might start crying when he wakes up, because he’s probably hungry too.”

Riker sighed. “Alright, fine! You can come with me, but it’s going to take a bit more planning.”

With a sinking heart, Riker hoped Ingaie’s joyful grin was worth the risk.

❦

The rock Picard had chosen as a seat was starting to dig into his skin uncomfortably. He shifted and sighed, eyes still trained on the fog below — it hadn’t lifted even slightly since they’d arrived. How long had they spent here? Two hours? Three? Four? He wasn’t used to not being able to tell the time easily; moments stretched on like eternities. The grass brushed at his feet with the breeze.

Troi and Mann had disappeared up the mountain somewhere. He’d kept them sitting here, for a while, but their boredom hadn’t escaped him. He’d told them to stick close; he knew they were competent enough, but he still felt worried at the prospect of the away team becoming even more split up. It made him feel like he’d failed, as a captain. His mind kept flitting back to Riker, fixating on the way he’d contested him in the corridor that morning, overlooking the rioting crowd.

_ Number one! None of us are in any immediate danger, and we’re not going to go against Starfleet’s wishes because we feel uneasy. I know it’s not an ideal situation, but we just have to deal with it. We’ll have breakfast with the emperor, and reassess the situation afterward. If I feel the need to beam a few extra security officers down, I will. _

He wished he’d listened to Riker, now. He didn’t even know if Riker was still alive — and that thought made him flinch. Perhaps he hadn’t realised just how important the man was to him, outside of being his first officer.  _ Riker’s hands turning out his cape, travelling down, down… _

Picard shook himself out of it, gritting his teeth. He refused to think about that. It made him feel bizarre. He had promised himself he’d stop thinking like that. He was this close to burying his head in his knees and trying to purge all thoughts of Riker. 

“Captain!” Mann called breathily as she ran up behind him, feet pounding the ground. She paused, doubling over with her hands on her knees, trying to catch her breath.

“Ensign? What’s wrong? Where’s Troi?” Picard asked, dread replacing Riker in his mind as he rose to meet her.

“She’s fine,” Mann panted, “but we’ve found something. You better come take a look.”

❦

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rundown of the first half, before Riker's bit:  
> \- Data is thinking about what would happen if Geordi died. It triggers the weird pulses through his positronic network that he's started getting around Geordi, except this time they feel bad.  
> \- The two Avul'a torturing him - a man and a woman - don't seem to be surprised about the fact he has circuitry beneath his skin, and keep talking about 'upgrades'; they don't seem to realise that he is not an Avul'ian noble.  
> \- A second Avul'ian male comes bursting through the door, telling them about infighting between the servants and the slaves; while the woman, a servant, seems surprised, the man, a slave, doesn't.  
> \- The man kills the woman, then leaves Data hanging.  
> \- Riker's part starts; from here on out there's no gore/mentions of torture.


	12. Part Twelve; It's All Fun And Games

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! Sorry for the lack of uploads, between graduating & visiting my Christmas-obsessed relatives for the holidays, I haven't had a lot of time to sit down and write. I hope you enjoy this chapter :)

**PART TWELVE**

_It’s All Fun And Games_

The structure sitting atop the mountain looked nothing like the Avul’ian architecture of the palace and marketplace. Boxy, squat, and looking every bit like a brutalist-style building you might see on mid-20th century Earth, the thing looked thoroughly out of place with its surroundings. If Deanna really tried, she might be able to pretend she was on another planet entirely, countless parsecs away from the bloodbath they’d experienced that morning.

Picard and Mann appeared, rounding the crest below her. She could see Mann point up at the structure; Picard faltered for a moment, looking shocked even from this distance. Deanna waved to them, shivering in the chill of the building’s shadow. She called out to them as they neared, gesturing to the side of the building. 

“I found a door while you were gone! I think we can get inside, if it’s open.”

The inside of the building smelt of metal when they slipped through the door, the air frigid and biting. The darkness caressed her with damp fingers, prying her mind open, prodding at their cold and shivering limbs with something akin to mockery. Mann was a warm presence behind her.

“I don’t suppose anyone saw a lightswitch on the way in?” she whispered, drawing closer to Deanna. 

Picard moved forward, silhouette barely visible as he stepped deeper into the darkness. One step, two steps, three steps… and then he was gone. Deanna held her breath. 

Without warning, the room flickered into brightness, harsh lights blinking on from where they lined the ceiling. Picard stood not five steps away from them, looking upward. 

“Motion triggered?” he offered. 

Deanna relaxed a little, squinting in the sudden glare. They were standing in a long, white corridor, lined with doors. Picard glanced back at them. Mann drew her eyes over the doors.

“Should we just… try one and see where it goes?”

Picard turned his gaze to Deanna. She shrugged.

“I’m afraid I don’t have a better suggestion.”

“Be on high alert,” Picard said eventually. “We should be looking for something that will either help us defend ourselves if attacked again, or will allow us to contact the _Enterprise_ . Under _no_ circumstances will we split up.”

Deanna nodded her understanding. “So… which door first?”

Mann peered down the corridor. “The closest?”

The hinges shrieked as Picard heaved the door open, and Deanna cringed. That thick metallic stench coated this room; it settled in her throat like rust. Although swamped in a darkness too deep for her vision to penetrate, the room felt cold and emotionless. Stoic, devoid of any and all feeling. She couldn’t help but feel that they were doing something horribly wrong, like there was something that was lurking in the darkness of the room that would pounce on them and wring them of life as soon as they stepped inside.

Those harsh white lights blinked on automatically in this room too. The first word that came to Deanna’s mind was ‘surgical’ — the room had a certain sterile quality to it, the kind of aura you might feel in a hospital. It even had something that resembled a gurney pushed up against the opposite wall, sitting next to a cabinet stuffed full of intimidating instruments and gadgets that Deanna had never seen before in her life. In the middle of the room sat a peculiar metal object criss-crossed with pipes and wires. Although she knew it wasn’t possible, Deanna couldn’t help but draw connections to those hideous Borg alcoves upon their cubes.

“What do you think these are?” Mann peered carefully at a row of glass jars near the door. Deanna frowned, squinting into the thick yellow fluid that sat stagnating within them. Each appeared to house a peculiar chunk of whitish solid, looking almost translucent as it hung suspended in the fluid. Raised lines criss-crossed the surface of each chunk, reminding Deanna of the veins in a leaf, or…

“Those are capillaries,” she said in a sudden horrific realisation. “This is flesh. Lumps of flesh.”

Mann physically recoiled. Deanna glanced over her shoulder to where Picard was quietly inspecting the strange contraption in the middle of the room.

“Captain,” she started, “come and look at this—”

Deanna didn’t get to finish. Almost immediately after Picard had turned his back to the object, pencil-thin, snake-like metal tubes whipped out from it and dove toward his neck. They burrowed into his skin without hesitation.

Picard cried out and fell to his knees, his gaze growing distant. Deanna was by his side as fast as her heavy skirt would allow, but she wasn’t quick enough to catch him as he slumped onto the floor, eyes open but unseeing.

❦

Picard woke amidst dripping leaves.

Rain had filled his mouth and choked him — it was this sense of drowning that had gripped his mind and pulled him roughly from his dreams. He turned his head and coughed up blood-tinged water, too confused to pull himself up. The pale light of day swam around him; his eyes forced themselves closed in an effort to hide from such an oddly blinding force. He knew he hadn’t been here before. Had he been with someone?

Eventually, his hands found something to wrap around and pull him weakly to a sit. He cracked his eyes open again, blinking drops from his eyelashes. His clothing clung uncomfortably to his skin as he managed to glance around himself with recovering eyes at the transcendent sight before him.

Trees like great pillars reached forth to the sky around him, the canopy an indiscernible mass high above him. Magnificent blooms hung delicately from thick emerald stems, their fragrance almost cloying as raindrops slid softly from their fragile petals. In spite of his unlikely predicament, he found his chest lightening with something akin to reverence as he took in his surroundings.

He _had_ been with someone. Someone he knew. He hadn’t been in this garden before, no he’d been somewhere sterile and grey… 

Deanna. Had he been with Deanna? Yes, he was sure of it. He’d been in some sort of hospital — no, something that felt like a hospital but wasn’t a hospital — and Deanna had been with him. What had happened?

Picard’s vision improved further, and the peculiar feeling of static confusion that stuffed his skull let up slightly. He was shivering, despite not feeling cold, his hands still wrapped around the low-lying branch he’d used to heave himself upwards. The rain wasn’t unpleasant, but he didn’t appreciate it either. His mouth stung uncomfortably — he could taste the sharp tang of blood, and when he probed further with his tongue he found a tooth missing and two chipped.

There was something here with him. It wasn’t so much physical as a vague, simmering feeling. A morphing air of almost _venereal_ connotation. It scared Picard. He had a sinking feeling that he knew exactly what it was. Something he wasn’t ready to face yet. Something he’d been pushing away for years now. It all lent to the growing sense of dread-tinged confusion sitting heavy in his gut like a stone.

Still, it wouldn’t do to grovel in a puddle. His last memory was being a hospital-like place with Deanna — so how had he gotten here? With a determination that rivalled his confusion, he heaved himself to his feet, leaning heavily against a tree trunk as the world swam around him. It passed in an instant, and he turned his attention to the surroundings once more. If Deanna had been with him, it was possible she was here too.

There was a distinct lack of movement in the foliage around him, save for the steady drip of the rain. The canopy may have gyrated in some unfelt wind, but down on the floor of this strange forest he could make out nothing but a static, virescent mass. If there were any animals dwelling amongst the trees that had long since sheltered from the storm. 

“Hello?” It was hard to speak. His voice was raspy quiet, even when he tried to shout.

There was no reply. The air was still.

He sat there for a moment, ears straining to hear anything other than the wind in the trees. Nothing. His head spun sickeningly, and he was forced into a crouch, forehead pressed against the glistening bark of the tree next to him in a desperate attempt at regaining his balance.

His mind was filled with water. Unbridled emotion swallowed him like a wave, pulling him underwater and leaving him unable to breath. Memories began to eddy below the surface. There had been a man, before this. He couldn’t quite place where, but he could see his face. It was indistinct, blurred, like he was watching a reflection dissipate as ripples moved through its features. The man’s eyes were filled with admiration, and Picard fell into them as he crouched, submerged in emotion.

_Shelter_ , he thought, and heaved himself out of the emotion-filled nadir he’d fallen into.

The rain had eased to a meek drizzle, but the ground was still slush below him. The mud threatened to steal away his shoes as he struggled through the trees with no particular destination in mind. He discovered, only after managing to coat himself from head to toe with grime, that stepping from tree root to tree root was a much more efficient way of progressing. They protruded from the mud like gnarled serpents of wood, more than big enough to step on (although they were slippery with moss and he almost toppled off multiple times).

It hadn’t been a hospital. It had been an alien building, grey and dangerous, that they’d entered. It had smelled like metal. He remembered that smell vividly. And before that had been shouting and crowds and blood and… 

_Riker_.

Picard stumbled over a rock and hit the ground hard, the sudden jolt of memory too intense for him to struggle onward. The rain fell like flower petals onto his skin. He lay supine, feeling the drops of water caress his face softly, running their ice-cold fingers across his cheeks. His shirt stuck to his chest as the rain blossomed within him. It felt like it was sending a thousand new shoots burrowing from beneath his skin, breaking the surface and opening up into magnificent blooms. It tugged at something ancient and repressed within him.

He wasn’t ready to face this! His fingers fisted in the grass below him, ripping shoots from the soil and staining his fingers brown with mud. He found himself whispering Riker’s name, unable to help wishing for some sort of company in the void. He was confused, and a little scared, but he found himself unwilling to chase this feeling away like he had so many times before; this feeling of his chest gaping open and letting his heart explode and ooze into the damp air. He yearned for it, and that frightened him. 

The rain was choking him, filling up his throat and drowning him, but he couldn’t turn his head to the side and drain his mouth, he couldn’t even blink because of that feeling that was gripping him and leaving him paralysed…

And suddenly it was gone.

Picard gasped for air and blinked in the harsh light that blinded him. The smell of decaying metal crept into his throat again, and he couldn’t feel the chill of the rain anymore; when he moved to sit, his clothes were perfectly dry. 

“Captain,” insisted a soft voice beside him, and he turned his head to see Deanna kneeling beside him, exactly how he remembered her.

“What happened?”

“Borg technology,” Mann announced, brandishing a set of thin metal tubes, their ends stained red with blood. He followed them to where their ends disappeared into the machine he’d been looking at before. “They’re some sort of derivative of assimilation tubules. I’m not sure what they’re meant to do.”

“ _Borg_ technology? What’s Borg technology doing _here_?” Picard frowned, casting a wary eye over the inert contraption beside him. 

“They went into your neck. Mann ripped them out.”

“How did you know it was safe?” Picard asked, raising his hand to the two vampire-like holes now adorning his skin. They stung terribly when he touched them, and he drew his fingers back.

“I didn’t,” Mann shrugged. “Split second decision.”

“How long was I gone?”

“You were only unconscious for thirty seconds, at most. Do you remember anything?” Deanna asked. “Do you have any idea what it might have done to you?”

Picard thought for a moment, and remembered that vast forest with its verdant leaves. He remembered that crashing feeling that swept through his skull; the years of feelings he’d been beating down cresting in some massive tsunami he was unable to get away from. He was still drowning. How could he ever hope to pull himself ashore after that?

“A holodeck,” he said, to distract himself. “I believe that was meant to be something akin to a holodeck.”

❦

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oooo, the mystery thickens...  
> We're actually nearing the end of this monster fic! I predict that there will be ~20 chapters, although can't say for sure. What do you think is going on with the Avul'ian race? Why do you think they have Borg technology?  
> See you next time... :)


	13. Part Thirteen; Food Run

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back :) There's a single line of Klingon in here - it's translated in the end note for those who are curious.  
> Important disclaimer! I'm about to start the first year of my undergraduate degree, which obviously means a lot of me having to settle into uni & its workload. This means that I honestly don't know when the next chance i have to write will be — it could potentially be quite a while before I'm able to upload again. I hope you guys don't mind! I know my uploading schedule has been.... not the best as of late, but I promise I'm not giving up on this fic :)

**PART THIRTEEN**

_ Food Run _

“It’s down there,” Ingaie announced, pointing down a corridor that looked identical to every single other corridor they’d passed. Riker cringed, frantically trying to ‘shhhh’ her as quietly as he could. 

“You’ve got to keep your voice down,” he breathed, heart pounding as he listened for any signs that someone had heard her. The golden halls were silent. Ingaie rolled her eyes.

“It’s down there,” she hissed, her loud stage whisper not much better than before. Riker resisted the urge to groan. He hefted Shon up from where he was slipping off of his hip. The little guy was surprisingly heavy for his size. 

“How do you know?” Riker asked. As far as he could tell, all these corridors looked the same. He supposed the kid  _ had _ grown up in this palace, but he still found it hard to believe that she didn’t get confused. Maybe the monotony of it all would have been less of a problem (perhaps funny even) if this had just been a normal visit — getting lost in the corridors with the kids, trying to find their way back and ultimately missing dinner — but in this situation? It could be deadly.

Ingaie looked at him as if he was stupid. She pointed to the floor. “The markings, dummy.”

The… markings? Riker studied the paintings trailing across the floor and walls. They looked the same as every corridor, and every room as well. Fantastic designs swirling almost mystically over the gold, locked in curving poses and delicate scenes. He shot Ingaie a blank look. She sighed and tapped at the design with her foot.

“Food. This one has food, so the kitchen is this way.”

Riker felt realisation slap him like a dead fish. The kid was right — almost every item woven into the design resembled some sort of food dish. He recognised several of the dishes he’d been fed in the week leading up to now, all nestled into the twisting design. Now that he was thinking about it, the other designs were similar. The ones near the bedrooms were filled with pillows and candles. The banquet hall had plates and cups. Riker felt like a complete idiot; he hadn’t even realised that those markings weren’t just decorative. They were like signposts, guiding the palace’s occupants around its glistening halls. He cast a sheepish look at Ingaie.

“Clever. Let’s go — slowly.”

They inched down the corridor, one step at a time. Riker motioned to Ingaie to stop every few steps, straining his ears to listen. 

“This sucks!” Ingaie hissed at him after pausing for the fifth time. They weren’t even halfway down the corridor. “I’m hungry!”

“It’s dangerous,” Riker whispered sternly. “I don’t want you kids getting hurt.”

“There’s no one around!”

“Now, we don’t know that for sure.” Riker pinched the bridge of his nose. “How are you not terrified at the moment? If I was your age, I’d be terrified.”

“Maybe you’re just a wuss,” Ingaie scowled.

“I’m not a wuss!”

“Scaredy-cat!”

“I’m actually very brave! I work on a starship!”

“Will is a scaredy-cat!” Ingaie sung, smiling gleefully.

“Am not! You just ask Jean-Luc when we get out, he’ll tell you I’m not a scaredy-cat”

“Will?” Shon whispered nervously from Riker’s side. “Who’s that?”

Riker fell silent immediately, whirling around in the direction Shon was pointing. To his horror, two ragged Avul’a were stalking up the corridor from the kitchen, one of them grasping a phaser tight in his hand. Where the fuck had he gotten a phaser from? Riker took a step backwards, turning to shield Shon’s body. Ingaie whimpered and drew closer to him.

“Look who we have here,” the man with the phaser crooned. “What’s this? The emperor’s children? And… one of his human visitors.”

With a jolt, Riker recognised him — he was one of the slaves at the door of the room they had met Shan in every time they discussed the agreement. He didn’t recognise the woman, but he hated the way her eyes ate into him, like she could read his thoughts or taste his fear.

“Su’wenna A’chtuk’shAl,” she giggled to the man. “K’le, Sho-in — I can have the A’chtuk’shAl, yes?”

“I’m sure that can be arranged,” the man smirked. 

There was a door just in front of them — but that would mean running  _ toward _ the two, and Riker didn’t know how trigger-happy the woman was. Shit, he didn’t know if that room was safe, or if they could even get in. Ingaie pressed herself closer to him. Shon buried his face in Riker’s neck.

“Will, I’m scared,” Ingaie whispered. Riker glanced down at her. Fuck it — he was going to protect these kids, no matter what. 

“Ingaie, in a moment I’m going to take your hand. When I say go I want you to run as fast as you can, faster than you ever have in your whole life. Got it?” he breathed to her, keeping his eyes trained on the two shabby Avul’a in front of him. Ingaie nodded.

Riker took a deep breath, bracing himself.

“Go!”

  
  


❦

Worf itched to fight.

He was a Klingon, for Kahless’ sake! He had warrior’s blood boiling through his veins, a vast and fury-filled ocean that pounded under his skin and urged him to run into battle. He hated that he had to sit here like a coward, cooped up in this tiny golden room so far away from the action. He was torn between the duty he felt to his friend, sitting so small on the bed, and the distant pull of bloodshed.

Geordi looked up from where he’d been sitting, knees to his chest and head resting on knees. The blood painting his skin had dried completely, now, and had started to flake off like dandruff, or confetti, around him. He turned his head in Worf’s direction, eyes fixed just over Worf’s shoulder. The Klingon paused his angry trudge back and forth in front of the door.

“I can hear you pacing.”

Worf resumed, expecting some clever quip. Instead, Geordi rest his head back on his knees and gently asked, “Are you alright?”

Worf stopped again, this time out of surprise. It wasn’t often that he heard those words. He didn’t know how to respond. Internally, he was desperate to fling open that door and find the away team, fighting through whatever rioters happened to be in his way. He shrugged, despite knowing that Geordi couldn’t see it.

“I am fine.”

Geordi snorted. “No you’re not. I can practically  _ hear _ you thinking, Worf, and—”

He paused suddenly, straightening up. Worf frowned.

“Ge—”

“No, shhhhh!” Geordi held up a hand, and Worf fell silent. “Do you hear that?”

Worf listened for a moment. It was silent outside. “Hear what?” he hissed.

“There’s someone on the other side of the door,” Geordi whispered. 

“I think you’re hearing things,” Worf grumbled, but he moved toward the door anyway, dipping his ear toward the crack between the door at the wall. It took a moment to identify, but, to his surprise, he could hear a faint whisper on the other side of the door, a familiar voice hissing a line that Worf knew all too well…

“Mova’ ‘aqI’ ruStaq,” the voice whispered, and Worf felt his breath catch in his throat. He took a deep breath, possibilities rushing through his mind. This could be a trap — or it could be a plea for help. If he opened the door, was he welcoming death or welcoming a friend? 

He grunted as he shoved the low, heavy table from where it was barricading the door. Worf himself wasn’t afraid to die (Gre’thor, look at the line that voice had just spoken, that line so instantly recognisable to every Klingon), but he could never wish death upon another Starfleet crewmate, much less a  _ friend _ like Geordi.

Worf steeled himself and opened the door.

❦

“Worf? Who is it?” Geordi asked warily as he heard the door scrape open. He struggled to his feet, bracing himself against the wall to avoid losing his balance.

“It’s Data,” Worf exclaimed incredulously, “and he’s in bad shape.”

Numbness flooded his mind. His limbs felt like they were floating, and he pressed his hand harder against the wall to hold himself up. For a sickening moment, he didn’t feel anything — a void of missing emotions rushing through his body, an unfeeling mass that made him worry that he’d lost the ability to feel. 

It was over in a split second. Relief crushed his brain in a vice grip, and all Geordi could manage was smiling in a random direction and hoping Data was somewhere on the receiving end. A hand touched his arm gently.

“Geordi; what happened to your VISOR?” the android asked worriedly. Geordi chuckled, feeling giddy.

“Hello to you too, Data. I lost it somewhere down the track.” He adjusted his position to face in the direction of Data’s voice.

Worf grunted. “They took it off him and smashed it.”

Geordi sighed.  “A little Klingon birdie told me you don’t look too hot yourself.” He outstretched his arms, finding Data’s chest. Sliding his hands upward, his fingers ghosted Data’s neck, wincing at every laceration he encountered. 

“Geordi, my injuries are insignificant—” Data started, but Geordi hushed him with a gentle ‘shh’. He let his hands run down the android’s arms, coming across a deep cut on his left forearm.

“Gee, Data, this feels bad,” Geordi whispered, probing the injury gently to try and work out what was going on. His frustration at not being able to see had started to surface again. 

Data’s hands were soft as he prised Geordi’s fingers from his arm. “My injuries are insignificant, Geordi. Your lack of sight means you will feel it is worse than it really is.”

“You’re bleeding.”

“The chemical solution that acts as my blood has coagulating properties,” Data responded. “I am no longer ‘bleeding’.”

“What happened? Where were you?” Worf interjected. Geordi felt Data shift, presumably to look toward the Klingon.

“I was captured by an Avul’ian, shortly after leaving the ballroom — I believe I was being held underneath the palace. I was able to escape once my captors had left the room.” Data shifted back. “Although, I found it quite challenging, on account of my being tied up. The corridors were empty.”

“How did you find us?”

“I heard you talking,” Data responded, without pause. Geordi threw an incredulous look in the direction of Worf. 

“You… heard us talking?” Worf questioned.

“Shit, were we that loud?” Geordi snorted. “So much for safety, huh, Worf?”

The rush of adrenaline was fading, and Geordi noticed tears prickling in the corner of his eyes. It felt nice. His fingers found Data’s neck, again, and he buried his face into it, wrapping his arms tight around his friend. Softly, Data’s own hands slid onto his back.

“I thought you were dead,” he whispered.

“I am unharmed,” Data replied, also softly. “You have a significant amount of blood on your person.”

Geordi smiled into Data’s neck. “It’s not mine. Fuck, Data, I really started to believe you were dead.”

And now the tears really did surface, and Geordi felt a rush of relief at finally being able to let go of all that quiet emotion that had been welling up inside of him. To his surprise, Data’s arms tightened around him. 

Worf cleared his throat somewhere to their left. “I am going to barricade the door again,” he announced. Geordi could have laughed — even without sight, that signature Klingon awkwardness shone through Worf’s voice.

“I think I love you,” Geordi whispered to Data, but his voice was swallowed by the scraping of Worf moving whatever he was using as a barricade across the floor.

❦

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Klingon line during Worf's bit, 'Mova’ ‘aqI’ ruStaq', is the opening line of the legend of Kahless, in no' Hol (the 'ancestor's language', an ancient dialect of Klingon no longer spoken). Translates to 'it was a good day to die', which I think is such a cool line. Side note, but in the next paragraph I have Worf use 'Gre'thor' as an exclamation -- Gre'thor (or ghe'torvo' in tlhIngan Hol) is essentially the Klingon equivalent of the afterlife. I thought it'd be kinda fun to use it as an exclamation (similar to how we might use 'hell' lmao). I'm not sure if there are any actual instances of Klingons using it as an exclamation, but hey.
> 
> Also, the part about Data's 'blood' having coagulating properties is completely made up :) Artistic liberties, yay!

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoy this work! Keep safe this this pandemic & remember to wash your hands religiously.


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